The Jupiter Plague

“The rights of private property must always be observed,” Finn observed gloomily, rattling the lock. “However, paragraph fourteen of our emergency commission reads…” The rest of his words were drowned out as he raised his steel-shod, size-fifteen boot and kicked hard against the lock. Screws squealed as they tore from the frame and the door swung open.

Ahead of them stood a large and freshly painted dovecote above which two pigeons were circling. Clearly visible on the floor inside were a dozen more lying on their sides, some feebly beating their wings.

“What is this floor made of?” the soldier asked, stamping his foot on the roof. Sam looked down at it.

“This is a new building so it must be one of the asbestos slurryes.”

“They are fireproof?” Finn asked, opening a valve on his tank.

“Yes, of course.”

“Very good.” He raised the flamethrower, waiting for the birds in the air to settle. They were disturbed by the strangers and by the sick birds lying below. The soldier watched steadily, nozzle pointed and his finger on the trigger, until all of the birds were down at the same time. He squeezed the trigger.

A roaring tongue of flame licked over the dovecote changing it from inert wood to a burning framework in an instant. One of the birds was caught in the air, a burning puff of fire that crashed to the roof.

“You’re murderers!” the young woman screeched as she came through the door behind them. She tried to clutch at Finn but Sam took her arms and held her immobile until she burst into tears and sagged against him. He let her slide down to the doorstep and touched her wrist lightly with his telltale. No, she didn’t have Rand’s disease, she was just one of the unfortunate bystanders so far. Perhaps the man in the ambulance was her husband.

There was a bubbling hiss as Finn sprayed the roof and the burning framework with his chemical fire extinguisher. While he kicked the smoking debris aside to make sure the flames were out he talked into his helmet radio, then rejoined Sam.

“I’ve reported in and they will send a decontamination team up here. We can go.” He was young, Sam realized, and was trying very hard not to look at the girl sobbing on the step.

When they came out of the building Killer had the ambulance waiting in front of the entrance with the car door open and the turbine throbbing.

“They got a riot,” he called out, “up by the Queens Midtown Tunnel entrance; it’s outta our district but they need all the help they can get. Dispatcher said to get up there.”

As usual Killer did his best to make the ponderous ambulance perform like a racing car, thundering it north on Park Avenue, then swinging into Twentieth Street. They drove with the windows closed, as ordered, and the odor of burned fuel was strong in the cab. When they passed Gramercy Park a decontamination team in sealed plastic suits was raking up the corpses of dead birds: a shotgun thudded under the trees and a tumbled ball of black feathers dropped to the ground.

“Poison grain, that’s what they been spreading,” Killer said, swinging into Third Avenue and pressing hard on the accelerator. “That gets most of them, and what the poison don’t get the shotguns do. It’s a real mess— Hey, look up ahead!”

A jam of unmoving cars filled the street, most of them empty now: two of them had crashed together and burned. A motorcycle policeman waved them over to the curb and leaned in the rolled-down window.

“They got some casualties down the plaza by the entrance at Thirty-sixth. You know where it is?” Killer flared his nostrils in silent contempt at this doubting question. “It’s quieter now, but keep your eyes open.” He pointed to the soldier’s flame-thrower. “You got a weapon besides that thing?” he asked.

“I am fully armed, Officer.” Finn swiveled in the seat and his recoilless.50 appeared in his hand.

“Yeah, well don’t point it at me, just keep it handy. There’s been trouble down here and there could be more. Take this tank up on the sidewalk, there’s room enough to get through.”

This was the kind of driving Killer enjoyed. He bumped up the curb and rolled down the sidewalk toward the plaza. There was the sound of shouting ahead, and racing motors, followed by a tremendous crash of breaking glass. A man ran around the corner toward them, his arms clutching a load of liquor bottles. When he saw the approaching ambulance he ran out in the street to go around it.

“A looter!” Killer said, curling his lip in disgust.

“He’s not our responsibility—” Sam said, then broke off as the man came closer. “Wait, stop him!”

Killer did this efficiently by throwing his door open just as the man was trying to pass. There was a thud and the crash of breaking bottles, then the ambulance braked to stop. They were so close to the wall that Sam had to vault the hood, jumping down by the fallen man who was on all fours, shaking his head in a welter of broken glass and spilled whiskey. Sam bent to look at his face then stepped back, pulling on isolation gloves.