insisting waterborne Anthrax isn’t toxic?”
Sean shook his head, confused. “What? Anthrax? Who said anything about Anthrax?”
“The CDC is investigating and we have confirmed reports of positive tests. So you’re denying the presence of Anthrax in our local water?”
“There isn’t any Anthrax in the water! It’s just a harmless, slimy—“ Shit. Sean took a cleansing breath. “I’m an illustrator. That’s it. Not a scientist, not a theologian. An illustrator who helped some people yesterday. Why are you asking me these stupid questions?”
The reporter pushed the microphone closer to his face. “So, Mr. Casey, you’re telling us waterborne Anthrax is safe?”
Sean clenched his mouth and glared at her. Fuck it. I’m screwed either way. “Why are you harassing me over bullshit lies instead of trying to help these people?”
The cameraman muttered, “Dude, you’re ratings gold!”
The reporter smiled. “So instead of accepting the truth of Anthrax tainted water, you’re still insisting the dead have risen?”
“No. I’m saying you’re an opportunistic bitch and your station is a shitty TV tabloid.”
Without so much as a flinch, her smile turned into a concerned frown. “You obviously need psychological help, Mr. Casey. Can you tell us more about these dead people you’ve imagined?”
“Get off my porch.” He turned to stomp into the house and slammed the door in her face.
Mare and Mindy had wandered next door for iced tea and gossip when Sean turned on his computer about an hour later. Despite the sinking feeling in his gut, he read Murph’s emails. At first angry and frustrated, by the most recent email Murph had become resigned to their fate, and their failure. And why not, Sean thought, opening Chrome and locating the first bookmarked job search site. He has a regular job.
“Ooh. Someone needs line drawings of faucets for a farm plumbing catalog. Faucets and hydrants. Be still my heart,” Sean muttered as he clicked to apply.
Web design, animation, more web, he thought, working through the postings. Doesn’t anyone need print graphics anymore? He’d found two potential jobs by the end of the listing queue and closed the window to see a popup ad. Damp basement getting you down? Call us to clean mold and mildew so you can breathe easier!
He opened a fresh window. All this rain, I bet lots of folks have wet basements. Our sump’s working almost constantly, and it’s a wonder we haven’t had any mold—
Sean stopped, finger over the mouse button. Mold. The spore people in the creek. It had to start somewhere.
A few minutes of Googling later, he found a topographical map of Boone County and zoomed in to just east of Pinell. Juniper Creek meandered past the cemetery and he traced it upstream to its source northeast of town. Over by the chicken farm, he thought, opening a new window. This time, he searched for water table information then saved both images and a satellite view to his hard drive.
He brought all three into PhotoShop, each on a separate layer, and adjusted their sizes until various points lined up, especially the curves in Juniper Road. He frowned at the screen as he flicked through the layers, his gaze drawn again and again to the chicken farm north of town. Upstream from the cemetery. On high ground. And chickens can create a lot of toxic gunk.
He scowled at the image and let out a harsh sigh. All this rain, there’s no telling how much it’s spread. He stood and, deciding he must be crazy after all, went to find his shoes.
Chapter Ten
Nicole grimaced and unplugged the radio, cutting off a report about a woman found beaten to death behind a pizza joint, which had followed an equally grim update on the missing local boy.
Mindy sighed, thankful for the break from bad news. Endless dreams of wintry car accidents had been awful enough for one day.
Nicole grabbed the pitcher of tea then returned to her kitchen table. As she reached for Mindy’s glass, she
Sean shook his head, confused. “What? Anthrax? Who said anything about Anthrax?”
“The CDC is investigating and we have confirmed reports of positive tests. So you’re denying the presence of Anthrax in our local water?”
“There isn’t any Anthrax in the water! It’s just a harmless, slimy—“ Shit. Sean took a cleansing breath. “I’m an illustrator. That’s it. Not a scientist, not a theologian. An illustrator who helped some people yesterday. Why are you asking me these stupid questions?”
The reporter pushed the microphone closer to his face. “So, Mr. Casey, you’re telling us waterborne Anthrax is safe?”
Sean clenched his mouth and glared at her. Fuck it. I’m screwed either way. “Why are you harassing me over bullshit lies instead of trying to help these people?”
The cameraman muttered, “Dude, you’re ratings gold!”
The reporter smiled. “So instead of accepting the truth of Anthrax tainted water, you’re still insisting the dead have risen?”
“No. I’m saying you’re an opportunistic bitch and your station is a shitty TV tabloid.”
Without so much as a flinch, her smile turned into a concerned frown. “You obviously need psychological help, Mr. Casey. Can you tell us more about these dead people you’ve imagined?”
“Get off my porch.” He turned to stomp into the house and slammed the door in her face.
Mare and Mindy had wandered next door for iced tea and gossip when Sean turned on his computer about an hour later. Despite the sinking feeling in his gut, he read Murph’s emails. At first angry and frustrated, by the most recent email Murph had become resigned to their fate, and their failure. And why not, Sean thought, opening Chrome and locating the first bookmarked job search site. He has a regular job.
“Ooh. Someone needs line drawings of faucets for a farm plumbing catalog. Faucets and hydrants. Be still my heart,” Sean muttered as he clicked to apply.
Web design, animation, more web, he thought, working through the postings. Doesn’t anyone need print graphics anymore? He’d found two potential jobs by the end of the listing queue and closed the window to see a popup ad. Damp basement getting you down? Call us to clean mold and mildew so you can breathe easier!
He opened a fresh window. All this rain, I bet lots of folks have wet basements. Our sump’s working almost constantly, and it’s a wonder we haven’t had any mold—
Sean stopped, finger over the mouse button. Mold. The spore people in the creek. It had to start somewhere.
A few minutes of Googling later, he found a topographical map of Boone County and zoomed in to just east of Pinell. Juniper Creek meandered past the cemetery and he traced it upstream to its source northeast of town. Over by the chicken farm, he thought, opening a new window. This time, he searched for water table information then saved both images and a satellite view to his hard drive.
He brought all three into PhotoShop, each on a separate layer, and adjusted their sizes until various points lined up, especially the curves in Juniper Road. He frowned at the screen as he flicked through the layers, his gaze drawn again and again to the chicken farm north of town. Upstream from the cemetery. On high ground. And chickens can create a lot of toxic gunk.
He scowled at the image and let out a harsh sigh. All this rain, there’s no telling how much it’s spread. He stood and, deciding he must be crazy after all, went to find his shoes.
Chapter Ten
Nicole grimaced and unplugged the radio, cutting off a report about a woman found beaten to death behind a pizza joint, which had followed an equally grim update on the missing local boy.
Mindy sighed, thankful for the break from bad news. Endless dreams of wintry car accidents had been awful enough for one day.
Nicole grabbed the pitcher of tea then returned to her kitchen table. As she reached for Mindy’s glass, she
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