The big man sat up with a weary sigh. “Can it, Phil,” he said as he extended his thick hand across the empty cot. “I’m Thomas. I teach fourth grade math and history.”
Daniel shook his hand gratefully, appreciating the solid strength of it. “Daniel. I’m a . . .” His words faltered. He couldn’t tell them he was a geneticist. “I’m nothing at the moment,” he decided on, getting a rueful head bob from Thomas and a “Hell yeah” from Phil.
He let his things slip from his arms to land on the cot, and after a moment, he sat down, appreciating the canopy even more. The sound of the kids playing cowboys and Indians in the stands was incongruous with the man weeping nearby, and Daniel quickly looked away. Thomas had gone back to his paper, and Phil to his shoes. Daniel’s stomach rumbled. “Did I miss lunch?” he asked.
Thomas kept reading, even as he said, “No. Meals are three times a day. Women and kids first, then the men.”
“They take us into the back to the kitchens,” Phil said as he capped his marker and wedged it between the mattress and the cot frame. “Try not to look sick. That’s when they pull out anyone showing signs of it. If you stay at your cot, you’re gone when the rest of us get back.”
“So we suggest you go even if you’re not hungry.” Thomas slowly turned a page.
Phil scooted closer to the edge of his cot. “Women have the home showers, men the away. Don’t go through your care package too fast. They won’t give you a new one. I tried.” Phil stretched, making him look even thinner. “I’ve got three care packs if you need something. They leave ’em when someone gets taken out. I’ve got shavers for two weeks.”
“Phil,” Thomas intoned tiredly as he went back to his paper, shaking it out to all but hide behind it. “Shut up.”
But Phil leaned across the narrow space, whispering, “Tom’s wife and little girl died yesterday.”
The paper hiding Thomas’s face trembled. “Phil. I swear I will reach over there and pull out your tongue. Shut the fuck up.”
Expression dark, Phil pushed back and settled silently to stare up at the blue canopy.
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” Daniel said as he took his shoes off, blanching when he saw another man’s loafers under the cot.
Thomas sighed. The paper dropped, and he looked toward the sound of the boys now flying balsa wood airplanes down the bleachers. “I still have my son. His cot is with my sister and her two boys. I think he’s pretending it’s a sleepover and the world hasn’t gone to hell.”
“I’m so sorry.” Guilt was thickening, and lunch, as Thomas had said, was yet to be served. The women and kids ate first. What kind of a man would he be if he did nothing as they died from a pizza? “Ah, I’d be willing to bet your son doesn’t like tomatoes,” he said hesitantly.
Thomas chuckled, the sound a mix of rueful parenting and pride. “He hates them. I can’t tell you how many times my wife tried to bribe or bully him into trying them. She did love her tomato sandwiches. A little salt. A little pepper . . . I’m with my boy. All that slime.”
But then Thomas’s expression of heartache shifted to one of questioning, then anger. Moving slowly, he sat up, carefully setting the paper at the foot of the cot. “What are you saying?”
Daniel dropped his eyes, torn between telling him and saving the few lives that he could here, and keeping his mouth shut in the hopes that he could get out and spread the word to a wider audience. The first would save lives, but as soon as the police realized he was talking, they’d shut him up and the truth would end here at Chicago Stadium.
“How do you know my son and I don’t like tomatoes?” Thomas said again, his thick hands clenching.
But as he saw the man’s grief, Daniel knew there was no choice. The authorities might realize they’d made a mistake and haul him off at any moment. He would do what he could.
Head down, Daniel leaned forward. “The plague is carried by tomatoes,” he whispered.
“No way!” Phil plopped down on Daniel’s cot beside him.
“A virus that kills humans carried by a plant?” Thomas said quizzically, and then his expression went empty, horror flitting behind his eyes as he probably mentally reviewed his and his family’s diet the last few days. His focus suddenly cleared, hard as it found Daniel. “Why is this the first we’re hearing about this?”
Phil scooted closer, his bad breath washing over Daniel. “Is it the Soviets?”
“No,” Thomas said, glancing at his newspaper. “They’re in worse shape than we are.” But then he seemed to go still, his dark eyes narrowed as they found Daniel’s. “You,” he said, voice accusing. “I’ve seen you before. Yeah. A few days ago.”
Daniel put up a placating hand, his pulse quickening. “I’m trying to fix this, but I can’t do anything stuck here. I have to get out or the truth dies with me.”