Haven Days
(June-July 2020)
9-On the Hook
In the basement, Fiddleford soon joined Ford and Dipper. Ford welcomed him, offered him coffee, and they sat at the small conference table while Ford explained what Bill had told him. Fiddleford scratched his beard, now trimmed and free of unnecessary bandages. "Whoo-ee, that's a right tall order," he said quietly. "You know what this means, right? We gonna have to grab-doodle aholt of pretty near all the communication sats in orbit fer, oh, maybe two-three hours. How we gonna get permission?"
"I think," Ford said deliberately, "we should ask for forgiveness afterward than permission before."
"Whoa," Dipper said. "Are you going to get in trouble for this?"
"It's a possibility," Ford said. "But the alternative is to waste time while more and more patients are coming down with the Q mutation of the virus—that's what I'm calling the ones entangled with submicroscopic versions of a Rift. If what Billy—Bill, I mean—tells me is true, then it's only a matter of time before the Q-infected patients reach a critical mass and the result will be—well, like what happened here during Weirdmageddon, but on a global scale."
Fiddleford took a long drink of coffee. "We can't let that happen," he said quietly.
After a moment, Dipper nodded. "We could get in so much trouble for this. But as Wendy once told me, that's what makes it fun. Only—I'm sorry, Grunkle Ford, but—are you sure you trust Bill Cipher?"
Fiddleford gave his old friend an uneasy glance. "There was a time you trusted him more'n you did me, Ford," he said. "Dipper's right. You gotta be shore-nuff shore 'bout this'un."
Ford stood, paced for three or four steps, lowered his head, and took a deep breath before turning to face them again. "The Oracle told me never to trust him. Eventually, what he did to me and his unwelcome visits to my dreams made me so paranoid that I trusted no one. But a great deal of time has passed since then. Bill asked for and received a last chance from the Axolotl. He literally saved Mason's life. He appeared to Stan and me when we were on a quest for the Fountain of Youth. He advised us when one of his monstrosities reappeared. This is more difficult for me to say than you can imagine, but yes, I trust Cipher. Here and now."
"We did discover that this-here virus done had the rift mutation afore he mentioned it," Fiddleford mused. "And I reckon that iffen the world got Rifted, his second chance would go out the winder like a June bug in a house on fire. I'm in, Ford. So iffen I can get control of all of them satellites, our next step is to drag them subatomic partimawockles outen all the patients what has them, along with all of the ones floatin' free in the atmosphere. And then—what?"
"I can divert them to a null dimension," Ford said. "One that has no life forms, nothing to feed on. And if they manifest a Rift there—there's nowhere for them to go. It would become recursive, feeding on itself until it annihilated both the Rift itself and all the particles within the dimension."
"Are you sure you can do that?" Dipper asked.
"Eighty per cent sure," Ford admitted. "I need to work on the math."
"You a-goin' to use that there miniature Portal?" Fiddleford asked.
"Yes. And then destroy it."
"Part o' me wants to stand up an' cheer," Fiddleford said with a grin. "I never like that infernal conraption nohow, noways. But I gotta admit, it come in right useful a time or two. I been a-foolin' with the concept, an' two things: First, I agree, destroy that one. It's small, but even small it can do harm. Second, build another'n but improvimify it. Jes' only a miniature model, mind. Might come a time you'd need one again—like when you sent that gal Ariel back home."
Dipper said, "You never told me what happened with her."
"One day," Ford said, "I will."
And . . . they left it at that for the time being.
A break-out case was Ford later said, inevitable. It hit in late June, but not actually inside the Valley. Ford had conjectured that some wild animal, perhaps a weasel, perhaps a bat, might enter the Valley carrying the infection, but instead the bearer of the virus was—as Teek put it to Mabel—a rat.
A human one. Preston Northwest had managed to leave the Valley because he had business interests in Seattle that were faring poorly because of mass closings and shut-downs. It was a quick trip, and to give him credit, he wore a mask, but when he returned the scan at the border turned up evidence of infection. Despite his strong protests, Northwest was quarantined in one of the facilities. Three days later he had a severe infection.
Dr. la Fievre had found four physicians who were skilled in treating SARS-type infections. True, all but one had retired, but they all four had moved to the Valley for the duration. So far, Northwest was their only COVERT-19 patient. Two of them treated him in the secure, small clinic that had been set up near the warehouse and transportation plaza. His room was kept at negative air pressure—entrance was through an airlock—and the doctors wore hazmat gear and spent time in a decontamination room after their shifts with Preston.
He was dangerously ill, with a heavy cough, a fever that ranged up to 103, and blood oxygen levels that dipped below 90. Priscilla and Pacifica could not visit—though they did speak to Preston every day via a TV hookup.
Northwest was in critical condition for ten days. He looked dreadful and dropped weight at an alarming speed. The doctors tried experimental antivirals and, after a crisis on the seventh day when they discussed putting him on a ventilator, he slowly turned a corner and began to mend. His fever dropped but remained erratic, usually over 101 in the evenings and dropping to between 99.5 and 100 during the mornings and afternoons. On the ninth day he got out of bed for the first time since falling ill.
He was humiliated to find himself too weak to take six assisted steps to the restroom.
But that afternoon he spent three hours sitting in a chair. The next morning he sat up to eat breakfast. He tested positive for antibodies but negative for virus that day.
Preston all but begged to be allowed to go home again. Finally, early in July, Dr. Kinnear congratulated him. "It's Independence Day," he said. "If your last tests are clear, your wife will pick you up this afternoon and you can go home."
"Thank you," Preston, looking ten years older than he had two weeks before, whispered.
"No more trips outside the Valley," the old doctor warned. "You know what you did."
Unable to meet the old man's gaze, Preston muttered, "I put my wife and daughter at risk."
"No," the doctor said firmly. "Everyone in the Valley. I'm going to give you a regimen to follow. Be sure you stick to it. I want you and your family to isolate for the next two weeks. Dr. la Fievre will have a nurse check on you every day during those two weeks. You and your family and employees will be tested for virus every day. Is that acceptable?"
"If I can only go home," Preston said.
"Then I'll arrange it."
At four that afternoon, using a cane and still gasping a little, Preston walked out of the facility dressed in a suit that his family had sent over—the one he'd worn on his trip had been burned, just as a precaution.
He stepped into the sunshine and, though it was fierce, he thought nothing had ever felt so good. And then the limo pulled up. Wellington, the family butler and chauffeur, stepped out and opened the door. Pacifica, now a beautiful young woman engaged to the son of a State Senator, leaped out and hugged him, her face against his shoulder. "Oh Daddy," she said.
Priscilla kissed him.
"I'm so sorry," he said.
"Don't be silly," Priscilla replied. "You were sick."
"It was my fault," Preston said. "All my fault."
Wellington helped him into the car. "We all make mistakes, sir," he said softly.
"I don't usually cry like this," Preston said.
"Sometimes, sir, it helps to shed a tear or two."
On the drive back to the Northwest farm, Preston leaned back in the seat and just stared out the window as they rolled past the old familiar Gravity Falls scenes—their former mansion, up on the hill, the shabby downtown section, the park and the water tower and then the hills and pines.
When the car parked at the porte-cochère, Wellington let Pacifica and Priscilla out and then helped Preston to stand and steady himself. Inside, he sat in the parlor in his old chair while Pacifica fussed over him, and Priscilla brought him a glass of ice water. "Are you comfortable?" she asked.
He smiled. "The trip through town," he said before choking up.
"It's OK, Daddy," Pacifica said. "We're home now."
He shook his head. "It's just that—I looked at the town—God, I love this place."
The next morning he arranged to have all future meetings to take place remotely, until things got better.
He hoped they'd get better. Now that he knew how bad they could get.
"I don't want a big wedding," Mabel said the day after they'd all taken a break to see the fireworks at the lake. It wasn't as big this year as it normally was, but the crowd oohed, aahed, and applauded, and at least Billy had been enthusiastic about it.
He said his dad was chafing a little, feeling guilty that he was away from college during the normal planning sessions—but as for that, the college now proposed to offer remote instruction only for most of it students and Dr. Sheaffer, though grumbling about being unfamiliar with the technology, was going to teach his course load that way, at least for the next term.
Billy's sisters were not fully happy, either. Both of them had boyfriends back in California, but they understood how the Falls was a safe haven.
Anyway, on the morning of July fifth, Mabel had made her surprise announcement.
"What?" Dipper asked, nearly dropping his fork.
"I don't want a big wedding," Mabel repeated.
"I think it's the Shapeshifter, dude," Wendy said to Dipper.
"Nah, it's the real me," Mabel said, shrugging. "It—it doesn't seem right. Not in these times. Anyways, you guys had that little Justice of the Peace ceremony. Right now I don't want Teek's folks to spend a fortune, and I don't really feel that it should be a big deal. Dipper, we want to set the date for August 31. Is that all right with you?"
"Wow," Dipper said. "That's a first. You asking me something like that. But of course it's fine!"
"Thanks," Mabel said. "I thought here in the Shack, Candy will help with decorating and all, we can cater from the snack-bar kitchen, and Grunkle Stan can perform the ceremony. Wendy, will you be my Matron of Honor?"
"There for you, little sister."
Mabel nodded, teary-eyed. "Nothing goes the way you plan, does it? I mean, Teek and me were gonna wait, but—it just seems like it's the time. Mom and Dad are on board with it, and Teek's parents. I think they're a little nervous 'cause I'm not Catholic, but no pressure from them. And if Teek can get dispensation or whatever, we can always do like you two and have a church reaffirmation later."
"Sounds fine to me," Dipper said. "Mazeltov, Sis."
Mabel sprang out of her chair to hug them. She said, "God, I love you guys!"
And at that same moment, in the lab at the Institute of Anomalous Sciences, Fiddleford McGucket wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "I reckon we're near about ready," he said, his voice shaking a little.
"Then let's power up," Ford replied. He hesitated. "You know, this won't clear all the viruses from the environment. But eliminating the Q variant may cut the mortality rate by ten to fifteen per cent."
Fiddleford nodded. "Worth a shot, I reckon. Anything's better'n what's going on now."
Ford held out his hand and Fiddleford shook it. "It's time, old friend," Ford said. "The mini-portal is ready and tuned. We'll stay here to make sure everything is working, and then we'll have a week's quarantine before we can return home. If anything goes wrong—it's been my privilege to work with you."
"Aw, banjo polish!" Fiddleford replied, patting Ford's hand. "It's been my honor Ford. But nothin's gonna go wrong. Not when the mathematics are all so precise. Still think we got jest a eighty per cent chance of success?"
With a smile, Ford said, "I'm more optimistic after our computer simulations. I'd put it at eighty-five now." He inhaled and held his breath for a moment. "Well—take control of the satellite net."
Fiddleford sat at the computer—one he'd designed himself—and entered a line of code. Then swallowed hard and said, "Here we go!"
He hit ENTER and then, just to himself, he admitted, "God, I'm scared."