“You won’t get LaFleur and Racer,” Occam said. “They’re still in Chattanooga.”
T. Laine cursed. “You!” She yelled and pointed at a woman in a sheriff’s deputy uniform. “Get a team together and clear the house. Wear gloves. Touch no one, no thing, not one person, with your bare skin, not a doorknob or chair, no matter what, and get out fast. I want to make absolutely certain this place is empty.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said and started issuing orders.
“We need a null room on-site,” T. Laine said. “I have some calls in to find—”
Outside, a man hit the ground. Then another. T. Laine raced to the door and whispered, “Those two. They weren’t here when the bodies were discovered, but they did go down to get a look before the local law got here.” She turned and stared into the room, her eyes focused on something terrible that only she could see. “It’s not decelerating,” she repeated, her tired face growing even paler. “It’s growing.”
The victim list was now nine dead or down, and I wondered if the entire crew who had traveled with Stella on the tour had been affected by the death whatever. I had no idea how T. Laine would contain the energies and help the victims, but her being in charge of that meant the investigation was on Occam and me. I still had no idea why the überboss wanted me here, but for now, I needed to work.
TWO
More bodies fell, all of them people associated with the band or who had been in the basement. Some were struggling to breathe; some were unconscious. “Leave ’em where they lay,” T. Laine shouted, racing outside, her hands and body position suggesting that she was using a seeing working to explore the magical energies around the house and the victims. “A portable null room is on the way.”
“But they need our help,” an EMT said, his eyes tracking the victims lying on the lawn.
“Not until we know what we’re dealing with,” T. Laine said, “and not without responders wearing blue unis.” She pointed at Sheriff Jackett. “This thing seems to be expanding and growing, not decreasing. Maybe even jumping from victim to victim. I’ll cover them all with null blue aprons, but keep your people away or you can deal with this on your own. I swear to God, you make my job any harder and I’ll leave.” Which was a lie, but the sheriff didn’t know that.
“Why not just give EMTs unis and one a them null pens and let them help?” the sheriff asked.
“The null pens all need to be recharged except for two, and I’m low on unis,” she said. “Without a null room, we have a bigger disaster in the making.”
He gave a slant-eyed grunt. “Roger that. Back off, people,” he said, louder.
T. Laine looked at me and murmured, just for my ears, “I pray to God I really do have a null room on the way. I haven’t heard back from the North Nashville coven, but rumor says they have a portable one.”
Running into the face of danger was second nature to first responders, but so was using the correct equipment so they didn’t end up making things worse. As long as more help was coming they were willing to wait.
The first responders watching, T. Laine and Occam dressed out in fresh blue unis and started quartering the yard, covering the victims with blue aprons made of the same materials and coated with the same spells as the unis. Together, they turned victims on their sides, leaving bottles of water with the ones who were conscious, pulling them into shelter as quickly as I got the tents up.
Making trips, sweating, I carried the heavy quarantine tents to the backyard and the deputy who was the sheriff’s family—Alvin Hembest—and some of the local LEOs helped me assemble them. The tents were a simple design, but erecting them wasn’t a one-person job. I shed my jacket, pulled my springy hair back in an elastic, and put a baseball hat over it. I still sweated through raising three tents, the late fall sun bringing the temp to a humid high eighties. My small team and I also set up awnings and inflated air mattresses, covering them with disposable plastic sheets from the county’s biohazard unit. It was a huge van supplied with everything, even a water tank and outdoor shower for washing down contaminated victims. But the county had extremely limited supplies for paranormal contamination, and showering couldn’t wash away the effects of weird magics.
* * *
* * *
T. Laine would have made a great general, giving orders and dividing up supplies. Once all the victims were covered, and the conscious band members dressed in biohazard unis, she assigned four to a tent in a sort of triage, giving her limited, nearly drained null pens to the ones who appeared to be the sickest. Once she had the site as safe as she could make it, she let the first responders dress out in her dwindling supply of unis and render aid. They started oxygen and IVs and took blood pressures.
She assigned Alvin and me to start a database record of the victims and their symptoms and where they had been, and when, from the time they arrived at Stella’s house. We used paper pads because I was afraid the death whatever energies could potentially ruin electronics. They would rot paper too, but we could take pics of our notes later, giving us backup.
As more and more emergency vehicles rolled in, many from surrounding counties, the local citizens kicked in, dropping off food and supplies at the gate: hot coffee and donuts came from a coffee shop and bakery, a local convenience store donated drinks and ice, a church delivered fried chicken and fixin’s from a local Krispy Krunchy Chicken. A portable toilet was offered by a contractor but wasn’t needed because there was a human-bathroom in the barn. A pharmacy provided sunscreen, bug spray, tubes of lip protection, Tylenol, Tums, and assorted such things. Bags of chips and protein bars were delivered from a local grocery. Another church delivered bottled water, bleach, paper towels, and toilet paper. Bringing in food and supplies was good advertising for the local stores and churches, as the media sent out footage to the entire nation. Stella Mae Ragel was a national treasure.
Her death also meant unwanted publicity for anyone who got into camera range. Except for the time I erected tents, I kept my jacket on, a unit baseball hat on, and my face turned away from drones and telescopic camera lenses.
Once the quarantine tents were set up and full of people, Alvin and I took a break. Sitting on the steps to the side porch, we drank water and shared a bag of pretzels. Nearby, T. Laine begged for help from Tennessee’s witches, calling from her super-secret witch databank. Ending one especially frustrating call, she muttered, cussing under her breath.
Alvin said softly, “I feel sorry for her. Purdy li’l thing like that, having to be in charge of all this.”
“Alvin. You do know she does this all the time. It’s her job. She loves it. She’s good at it.” When he looked puzzled, I said, “She isn’t doing this job to snag a husband, quit work, and raise babies.”