Once again, thanks for the support, compliments and encouragement! Here's Chapter 3; right now I'm seeing about eight or nine chapters left to go. In this one, Cruz tries to cut Bosco out of her life for good, and Faith starts getting worried about the growing flu epidemic. ...
A word of advance warning; the character deaths start happening in Chapter 4. Sorry, but that's the nature of this particular crossover and part the theme of the story in general ... Look on the bright side, though - it includes Cruz ;)
For those of you who also have read (or seen) the "Stand" - Cosmic Castaway, I'm looking in your direction :) - Chapter 4 (which is almost done and should be up by the end of the weekend) will be where the many tie-ins and references to the book/movie will really start to take off ...
Anyway, enough of my rambling ... here's Chapter 3 :)
Chapter 3
June 24
Day 3
Bosco picked Faith's folded newspaper up off the seat and scanned the headlines without any real interest. An attempted coup in India had been dealt a swift and bloody end; another victory had been scored for gay rights; police in Wyoming were searching for someone who blew up a power station; Lloyd Henreid, the "Baby-Faced Killer," had been caught after a bloody tri-state crime spree through Arizona, Nevada and New Mexico. Fun stuff. Why Faith bothered with this depressing shit when she was surrounded by it every day was beyond him.
He tossed the paper back on the seat and drummed his fingers nervously on the dashboard. He could see Faith through the window of the quaint little coffee house they were trying out today, a cozy little mom-and-pop called Hank's. She was waiting in line, but there were only three people ahead of her. She'd be out in under five minutes.
It might, however, be enough time to make a quick phone call.
"Okay," he whispered softly. He patted his pockets, felt the jingle of change, and stepped out of the car. "Okay. Here we go."
He went into Hank's and nodded absently to Faith. An old gent with a fringe of baby-fine mad-scientist hair ringing the back of his head was at the counter, taking his sweet time ordering herbal tea. He was complaining vocally about the terrible cold he'd come down with, inserting several long-winded excerpts from his own personal life history just for variety. Hank himself was taking the order; he was smiling and trying politely to hurry the old guy along, agreeing that it was a tough old world; the papers said a particularly nasty strain of the flu was going around.
It looked as if Faith wouldn't be out in five minutes after all.
Good. He went over to the payphone in the corner.
He'd called Cruz the previous evening, counting eighteen rings before hanging up. When he'd tried again a half-hour later, he'd gotten a busy signal. Four hours and five more attempts later, the line was still busy.
He couldn't wait any longer. He had to talk to her, had to know where things stood. She'd called in sick again today, and with all this talk the last few days of colds and flu, Bosco thought that there might be some validity in her claim.
Might be. Operative word: might.
It could also be a convenient excuse. An excuse for what, though? He didn't know. But he found it hard to believe that someone with Cruz' stamina could be so completely floored by a virus. She'd been "sick" since what he was coming to think of as the Night of the Near-Extermination of Dougie Francis. He had to talk to her and straighten everything out. Everything.
One ring ... two ... three ... four ...
Click. Bosco felt something heavy drop into his gut.
"H'llo?"
Cruz' voice. Slurred and drowsy.
"Hi, Sarge. It's Bosco."
Long pause. "Bosc'relli? Whaddaya want?"
Ah, now there was a good question. Bosco realized that he'd spent very little time planning this call; he'd been concentrating too hard on the task itself to figure out how he was going to start. "Uh ... um ... Just wondered how you were doing?"
A drawn-out coughing fit came in response. "Sick," Cruz said testily, voice clearing a bit. "What do you think?"
And suddenly he knew, knew with dark and unquestionable certainty that she had another man there with her. At the same time some part of him realized that it was a stupid idea, but nevertheless it stuck. It was just too easy to imagine. He could see her, sprawled naked across her bed, some jagoff who looked like he'd fallen out of a beefcake calender laying half on top of her. He could see her holding the phone and grinning; oh boy, here's that stupid little pup Boscorelli again.
"You sure?" he said, keeping his voice neutral. God, the bastard was probably there right now, at this very moment, doing things to her even as she talked. That was why she was faking the hangover voice and the coughing. Just covering up.
"Look, Boscorelli" - two quick sneezes - "I'm just so flattered that you want to check up on me. Now, do you want anything else? 'Cause if you don't, I feel like eight different kinds of shit here, okay?"
Just say it, dumbass.
Bosco punched the phone lightly and petulantly, gritting his teeth. "I need to know where we stand, Cruz. I need to know what our future is together."
Oh, God. Could that have come out sounding any more fucking stupid?
Stunned silence on the other end.
Finally: "Listen to me, Boscorelli. I don't want to see you again. I don't want to see you at work, I don't want to see you outside of work. Stay out of my way. Understand?"
"Is it about the thing with Dougie?"
"Ugh. Boscorelli, you're clueless, you know that? Just totally" - spasm of crackling, wet coughs - "totally clueless."
Bosco punched the phone again. Then his mouth went off before he could stop it. "You've got somebody there with you. Don't you?"
Amazingly enough, that seemed to actually render her speechless.
"What?" she cried when she found her voice, almost sputtering. "What are you ... is that what you ...? Jesus! I've had it with you! I'm sick, I'm tired and I'm hanging up on you now, handsome."
Click.
Now what, he thought after a moment, was all that about?
Well, it's simple, he answered himself as Faith started towards him with their coffees. Cruz used you that night, like a big ol' piece of Grade-A meat. Now she's dug in at her apartment with some new guy. The latest model. You see, you're not up to her standards, buddy, either as a cop or as a man. Cruz needs someone to support her in her endeavors, be it hot, hard animal sex or casual murder. See?
"No," he said firmly under his breath. That just wasn't Cruz. It wasn't like her to skip work to spend two days in bed with some guy. He was paranoid. Keyed-up. Hell, he was still a bit worried over that little hiccup yesterday, that hallucination with the crow. It hadn't bothered him much at the time, but he'd dreamed of that fucking bird last night, and though he couldn't remember the details, he suspected the dreams had been far from pleasant.
Faith handed him his coffee. "'No' what?"
"Nothin'."
He was aware of her staring at him, studying him as they got back into the car. She really was starting to think there was something wrong with him, and she was watching him closely. Watching for mistakes. Like yesterday, when he'd let that guy wander out into traffic. She was keeping tabs. He didn't like that.
He didn't like that at all.
"How's the cold?" he said absently, just to change the subject. She really was starting to look bad; dark bags under her eyes, waxy, pasty complexion, and he could almost see the swollen glands in her neck. Maybe she had the mumps. Wouldn't that be funny? He could get a few licks in on her if it turned out to be mumps; oh, look - little Faith has a kiddie disease. The idea brought with it a nostalgic ache. Something seemed to have died between them, that easy back-and-forth banter, and he wanted it back.
Faith shrugged and started absently rolling her newspaper into a cone. "Blah. My throat's full of razor-wire, and my nose is running off my face, but it's the kids I'm concerned about. It seems to have hit Charlie pretty hard. Like, flu rather than a head cold. He's been throwing up, diarrhea, the works. Emily, too."
Bosco nodded, no longer really paying attention, stirring his coffee listlessly. He'd lost Cruz. He'd lost her as a partner and he'd lost the possibility of getting something going with her. That was bad. What was worse was that he'd probably lost Anti-Crime as well. Cruz practically was Anti-Crime, so he was screwed every which way. Every which way except the good way. Christ. And just as he was starting to really enjoy it. Fuck.
"Bosco."
He looked up, and with dull surprise he saw that Faith was angry.
Faith was, in fact, seething.
"When you ask a person how they are," she hissed. "I think you should at least fake an interest in the response."
For a moment the two of them locked eyes, and suddenly there was that same urge, the one he'd had in the car yesterday - the urge to just reach out and slap her across the face. Maybe with that damn newspaper she was holding, just grab it away from her and smack her a good one with it. Goddammit, he so bitterly wished he'd let Cruz shoot Dougie. Would it really have been that big of a deal? What was the problem? Call it delayed self-defense. If he'd just taken a chance on that, he wouldn't be in this goddam miserable mess today.
He didn't really know if that made any sense or not, but he was damn well sticking by it.
Faith read most of this on his expression and her eyes narrowed. "Who were you on the phone with earlier?"
Bosco said nothing.
She nodded grimly. "Cruz. Wasn't it? What did she say?" She snorted. "God, do I even want to know?"
"Just ... just drop it, Faith."
"No, I will not drop it!" she snapped. "This is getting ridiculous, you know that? You're obsessed with that bitch, and it's really starting to piss me off. Didn't anything I said to you yesterday get through at all, or are you still just sitting back and letting your dick do all the thinking?"
He turned sharply. "Oh, are we a little jealous now?"
Faith's expression didn't change, but the knuckles on the hand holding her newspaper turned white.
In front of them, the radio buzzed. Paramedics needed assistance with a combative patient. By the sound of things it wasn't really that urgent, but Five-Five David was the closest unit. In other words, them.
Without breaking eye-contact, Faith confirmed it.
***
The ambulance was parked at the curb in front of a tenement block, lightbar flashing. A stretcher stood on the sidewalk next to the bus, its occupant unconscious and oblivious to the fact that he had become both the rope and the prize in a minor tug of war.
On one side was a paramedic; Bosco recognized him as Monte "Doc" Parker. On the other side was a short, scrawny woman of about sixty, with a pug face and arms that appeared too long for her body. She was wearing a flimsy summer dress that kept catching the breeze, threatening to reveal things that were probably best left to history.
Doc's partner, Carlos Nieto, came to meet them, looking agitated and uncharacteristically troubled.
"Sorry about this, guys." He gestured to the old woman. "Looks like more of this flu thing. We've been taking people in all morning with it. The lady over there calls us and says her husband can't breathe, so in we come, to the rescue. Except that now she won't let us take him to the hospital."
Faith shrugged. "Can't he stay here?"
Carlos shook his head and stifled a cough. "No way. Haven't you seen what this thing is like? The guy's in bad shape."
Faith looked at Bosco, who only shrugged and hung back. Let her try to make friends with the old bag, and if that failed then he'd step in.
".... sixty-five years old!" the woman was shrieking as they approached, still playing her deadlocked tug-o-war with Doc. Bosco didn't believe for a second that Doc couldn't just pull the damn thing away from her, that they couldn't just load the poor old goat into the bus and be on their merry way. If the old woman wanted to come along, okay. If not, leave her yelling on the street and she'd soon get over it. If she didn't, then the cops could haul her in. But of course Doc was too soft to do something like that, and so he had to go bothering the police.
"You brought us over here for this?" he whispered to Carlos as he passed.
Carlos shrugged. "We're about at the end of our rope, okay? No patience for this kind of bullshit. The hospitals are all filling up, and they're threatening to just start turning us away."
"No shit?"
Carlos shook his head nervously. "No shit."
"Ma'am," Faith said, gently prying the woman's hand from the stretcher. "Ma'am. Take it easy. What's the problem?"
And damned if the old woman didn't start to actually dance with fury. "They want to take my Len awaaaaaaaaay!"
"Ma'am," Faith repeated, looking uneasily at Len. Puffy-eyed and hollow-cheeked and sporting a hideously swollen neck, old Len already looked like he was well past his best-before date. "They're here to help him. To do that they have to get him to the hospital as soon as possible. Okay?"
The old woman ignored her and leaned protectively over her unconscious husband. "There, now, honeycakes, Alli's here, don't worry. I won't let 'em take you." She looked balefully from Carlos to Doc and then over to Faith, jabbing a bony finger at each of them in turn. "You. You did this to him."
Faith's eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"
The old woman - Alli - laughed. "The government. The stinkin' government. Len worked hard for them for thirty-two goddamned years. IRS. Everyone hated him. Hated both of us. You know what it's like? Being married to an honest-to-god tax collector?"
Faith shook her head.
"He was a good man," Alli said, and Bosco noted the tender, syrupy way the old woman looked down at her husband. He rolled his eyes; the old bag had Faith's number. "He was a good man, and everyone hated him. He gave so many years of his life working for those creeps, and look how they repay him!"
Faith shook her head. "I still don't understand, ma'am."
"He's sick! He's been getting sicker and sicker for three days now! I know what it is, too! The government!" She leaned in conspiratorially. "They can make bugs. In labs. Then they have to test them on people. So they do it on their own employees! I know they do! Len retired ten years ago, when he was fifty-five. Early retirement. They lost one of their best accountants the day he walked out of there. So the bastards tested their bug on him, and now you goons want to take him to where they can run tests to see how well it worked!"
"I'm sure that's not true, ma'am," Faith said soberly.
"It's true," Alli said with grim certainty. She looked contemplatively up at Faith, who was almost a head taller. And then, incredibly, the old woman stuck out her tongue. It looked like a pinkish-white slug.
"I'm sick too," she said. "See? They gave it to me as well. Our son Lynn, he lives in Los Angeles. He phoned me and told me everything last night! He says they declared martial law across California! He says it's a plague, and the bastards are burning bodies and towing barges out to sea and dumping more bodies and tryin' to cover it up! Captain Trips, they're calling it down there!"
"I'm sure that it would be on the news if-"
"No!" Alli said, grinning fiercely. "No! They sent in the Army to shut down all the papers and TV stations! Lynn said so!"
Totally bugshit crazy, Bosco thought disgustedly. And who the hell names their son "Lynn," for Christ's sake?
Faith shrugged. "There's a virus going around, ma'am." Conveniently enough, she sneezed. "There, you see, I have it. My kids have it. It's nothing to worry about, trust me. Just a nasty bug."
Alli sneered. "Of course you'd say that."
"Can we get on with this?" Carlos snapped.
Bosco nodded without turning. "I second that."
Faith favored each of them with a lethal glare, then smiled at Alli again. "I'm not the government, Alli. I'm just a working-class slob. Or maybe slobbette, eh? Eh? Heh ... yeah. Anyway, I can tell you with absolute certainty that if you and Len both go with Carlos and Doc here, they'll take you to the hospital to get checked out, and they'll help get Len back on his feet. That's all."
Alli looked doubtfully at Faith. Bosco sighed impatiently, shifting from foot to foot, and something a few blocks down caught his eye. Something was going on down there, something a bit strange, maybe even a bit creepy in light of what the old crone was raving about, but-
"Hey!"
Bosco turned to see Alli jabbing the death-finger at him. "What?"
"What are you supposed to be, Chunky? The muscle? In case this one doesn't break me with her charm alone?"
Bosco's brow clouded. "Chunky? Who the hell are you callin' Chunky?"
But apparently he was only a passing interest to the old woman, and she turned back to Faith. "I don't like you," Alli said flatly. She laughed, and it touched off a minor coughing fit. "But I guess I'll go. Hell, I s'pose there isn't a lot worse they can do to us, is there?"
They loaded Len into the back of the bus, Carlos taking up position on his right. Alli climbed up and sat down beside her husband on the opposite side, her back proudly straight and eyes forward. Doc slammed the back doors.
"Sorry about that," he said to Faith. "She'll definitely need a psyche consult when she gets to the hospital. I really appreciate the help. I didn't want to have to ... you know ... make a scene ..."
Too late, Bosco thought acridly.
"No problem," Faith said.
"Take care of yourselves," he said, getting into the bus and firing off one good, juicy sneeze. "Thanks again."
"No problem," Faith repeated, and started back for the cruiser.
Bosco fell into step beside her. "Chunky? I'm not chunky."
Faith smiled tightly. "Did she shatter your fragile self-esteem, Bos?"
"No. And that was a big waste of time."
Faith snorted. "Yeah, I convinced an old woman to go to the hospital where she can get some help. That was a real waste of time, all right."
"Whatever."
"So what do you think?" she said when they were rolling again.
"About what?"
"All that stuff about her son in Los Angeles. Martial law. What was the other thing she said? Bodies being dumped, the papers being shut down ..."
He glanced over at her, scowling. "What? You're worried about that? That woman was nuts, Faith." He grunted. "IRS man. Shit. Couldn't happen to a more deserving guy."
Faith shook her head. "I'm gettin' a little worried here, Bosco." She chuckled nervously. "I mean, Carlos wasn't even being an asshole. That's gotta mean something."
Bosco sneered. "Who the hell looks down at a baby boy and calls him Lynn? Can you imagine what that poor bastard must've gone through in school? You call a kid something like that and you might as well pay for the karate lessons in advance."
"Bosco, would you listen to me? I'm serious, here. I'm worried. About my kids, especially." She paused. "Bosco, what if it's ... like .... bioterrorism?"
Bosco groaned. "Aww, not that again! Look, you want my opinion? The government has seriously overrated the capability of a bunch of skinny little bastards hidin' in caves. A bunch of religious nuts, Faith, hidin' in caves like rats. That's supposed to be a threat? Come on."
"Mmm."
"Look, if you like we can swing by your place and check in on Fred and the kids." He grinned. "There's nothing to worry about, though. Look at me. That guy sneezed right in my face yesterday, and do I look sick?"
Faith smiled faintly. "Feel like a million, baby?"
Bosco grinned. "Feel like a million, baby."
She started to say something else and began to cough, a cough that very quickly turned into a series of long, whooping barks. She put her head between her knees and groped her pockets for a Kleenex.
Bosco slapped her companionably on the back. "All right there?"
She nodded, gradually getting it under control. "Mmm ... fine ... no problem."
"Maybe you should take the rest of the day off."
Faith frowned theatrically. "Are you kidding? While the great and mighty Sergeant Cruz is off sick as well? What would happen to New York without at least one of us out there to kick ass and take names?"
Bosco's face darkened and he started to protest. Then he realized that there had been no real sarcasm in her tone, no real trace of that underlying bite of disapproval or criticism. It had been an honest, innocent and - most important of all - totally unconscious joke.
And suddenly it at least felt like everything was right between them again. Just like that. No fanfare, no pyrotechnics. No big deal. He smiled.
Then he remembered what he'd seen earlier while Faith had been trying to calm the crazy old woman. That strange little thing going on a few blocks down that he'd almost - but not quite - been able to dismiss, just before the little hag had called him Chunky. He decided he didn't need to tell Faith about it. It'd only kill the mood, which for the first time in days - the first time in over a week, in fact - seemed free of tension. And it was probably nothing but simple coincidence.
No sir, she didn't need to know about the three Army vehicles - two jeeps and an Armored Personnel Carrier - that he'd seen crawling along with slow, plodding determination.
***
The bar seemed crowded enough. Men stood around in pastel suits, acid-washed jeans, red leather jackets like the one Michael Jackson wore during his Thriller phase. Women sported spritzed hair, Doc Martens, leg-warmers, phony punk mohawks. "The Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats was being piped out at what seemed like an impossible volume, making it absolutely impossible to think.
"Retro Eighties Night!" Rose Boscorelli cried merrily when she saw her son pull up a stool at the bar. She was busy madly mixing drinks, but it didn't seem to distract her from talking to him. "How ya doin'!?"
"Fine, Ma!" he yelled over the music.
"Not workin'!?"
"Took off early!"
"Whatcha drinkin'!?"
"Just a beer!"
Rose somehow managed to keep mixing the drink she'd been working on when he came in and get him a beer at the same time. In a glass, no less. Bosco grinned. He didn't even really want it, but as always, if his mother gave him something, he felt it was his duty to take it and like it.
"How are you doin', Ma!?"
"What's it look like!?" she cried, not unkindly. "Great!"
"No, I mean, how are you feeling? Like, are you sick?"
Rose looked at him as if he'd just asked if she was pregnant. "No! No, I'm not sick! Nice of you to ask, though!" She seemed to think a moment. "Bit of a sore throat, now that you mention it!"
Oh we can dance, we can dance ...
Jesus, I can't hear anything over that stupid fucking song.
"What!? Didn't hear you!"
"I said, I have a bit of a sore throat!"
Bosco suddenly felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.
"How's the crowd!?" he said after a moment.
"What!?"
"I said, how's the crowd tonight!?"
Rose shrugged. "Not bad! But not as good as we usually get! When we started this Retro thing, it really took off!" Another bartender came over, got her attention and said something inaudible. She turned back and shrugged. "'Scuse me a minute, will you!?"
Bosco nodded and swung around on his stool to take another look at the crowd.
"Oh, we-can-dance ... We-can-dance ..."
Everybody pull down your pants, Bosco thought with a wan smile. Or so we used to sing it in school. Shit, these people all look healthy enough. Has to be all a big coincidence.
After the Alli thing, he'd taken Faith around to her apartment to find fourteen-year-old Emily Yokas basically in charge. Fred and Charlie had slept almost all of the day away and were still sawing wood. It was quite a cute picture, and Bosco had to admit it had made even him a bit teary; Fred, curled into a fetal position, cradled Charlie in his arms, the pair of them out like lights. Emily claimed to actually be feeling a bit better, and was catering to their every demand during the brief periods when they were awake. Bosco thought the kid had done pretty well for a girl who'd nearly died of a drug-overdose only a few weeks before, and it was obvious that she quite enjoyed playing Little Mommy.
But Faith had been horrified. She needed to be home with them, she'd said. So they'd both knocked off early, which hadn't exactly scored them too many points with the lieutenant, who'd been quite pissed off and hadn't bothered to hide it. Enough people were out sick as it was.
Bosco had intended to just go home for an early night, and instead found himself here. Trying to see if this sickness really was so widespread.
And, he reminded himself, to check on his mother.
His eye was drawn suddenly to a tall, bronze-skinned woman with shoulder-length jet-black hair. She stood near one of the fire-exits, chatting it up with two men. His guts loosened sickeningly.
Jesus Christ, it's Cruz.
But of course it wasn't. She turned to face him and she was just an attractive Hispanic woman who was about Cruz' height and build, with the same hairstyle and the same liquid grace.
And also, he thought with a wry smirk. I'd say that Cruz wouldn't be caught dead in a leather jacket, black stockings and pink tutu combination.
The Cruz look-alike sneezed violently, and Bosco's smile faded abruptly.
Wouldn't be caught dead.
Wouldn't be caught dead in a plague-pit.
Christ, what the hell is wrong with you? Faith's paranoia starting to rub off? It's nothing. Just like she told the crazy old bag. Just a nasty virus. That's all. Don't let it get to you.
He shook his head and turned back to the bar, finding he didn't really want to look at the crowd anymore. He didn't want to see any more. No more coughing, no more sneezing.
"The Safety Dance" ended and Billy Idol's "White Wedding" took its place, the volume seeming to go down a notch or two in the change.
"I told them to turn it down a bit," Rose said when she came back over. "You get too over the top with the music and you kill the atmosphere, y'know."
Bosco nodded absently. "Ma ... you been seeing anything strange ... like ... I dunno ... Army activity? Soldiers?"
Rose wrinkled her nose. "You're asking some really odd questions tonight, Maurice. What's up?"
He swallowed and looked down into his beer. "Just a bit worried."
"About what? This flu thing?"
He looked up sharply. "What have you heard?"
"Nothing, really. Some four-star general was on the news earlier saying there was nothing to worry about." Rose suddenly screwed her face into a comical approximation of a grizzled old Army warhorse.
"'I don't know how many ways I can say it,'" she said in a gruff general's voice. "'There is no such thing as the so-called superflu.' That's what he kept saying. Over and over." She frowned. "Why? What have you heard?"
He smiled thinly. "Like you said: nothing, really. Look, are you sure you haven't seen anything weird?"
"No." She winked. "But if they show up, the doors are wide open here. I mean, soldiers and bars. Good mix. Good business." She shrugged. "But look, there's nothing gonna happen. Okay?"
Bosco nodded and stood up. "Yeah. Guess so."
"Where you going? It's not even nine o'clock yet!"
"Long day. I'm beat."
Rose shrugged. "Your loss."
Bosco started for the door, and about halfway across the dance floor, he turned. His mother was now flamboyantly pouring two glasses at once to the enthusiastic hoots and cheers of the customers.
And to his surprise he felt his chest tighten and his eyes start to burn, something that was a little scary. Christ, Faith really had gotten under his skin with all that doom and gloom shit this afternoon. At that point he had no idea what kind of horrors fate had planned for the following day, and Bosco decided to allow himself a little sentimental indulgence. Just this one night.
He waited until Rose had poured the drinks and went back over.
Then he leaned forward and hugged her as best he could with the bar between them.
"Love ya, Ma," he whispered hoarsely. And then, though he didn't quite no why, he added, "Be careful, huh?"
He left hastily then, leaving Rose to watch after him, a bewildered and utterly sweet smile spreading lazily on her face.
He would never see her alive again.