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 firstresponders, 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 padsbecause I was afraid thedeath whateverenergies 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.”
He looked truly confused. “Every woman wants babies.”
I closed my eyes. Breathed. Though I feared the stupid might be in the air, something contagious. “No. They don’t. Lots of women don’t want kids.”
“Well, sheeeit. These modern women jist don’t make nosense.” He shook his head and looked over my shoulder. “Incoming,” he said.
I looked where his eyes led, to see Sheriff Jackett striding toward us, between us, and up to Unit Eighteen’s witch. T. Laine had just dropped into a chair on the side porch, frustrated, tired, and worried, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers, eyes closed. “I want access to that basement,” he demanded.
T. Laine dropped her hand and looked up at the sheriff. She said nothing. I had a feeling she was counting to a hundred. Or mentally using the sheriff as target practice for ninja throwing knives. “Oh?” she said.
“Wiggle your nose or blink hard or whatever you do. But make it safe to enter. We need our crime scene.”
It was an insult based on old TV shows. Softly, T. Laine said, “Really.” Her face was cold, expressionless.
“I can’t see that you’re doing anything at all but wasting my time.”
Occam, sensing or hearing the ruckus, appeared from a tent and ambled closer. Unit Eighteen closing ranks.
Lainie stood and pocketed all her null pens. Every face in the yard was turned to her, waiting as she arranged things in her pockets to her satisfaction. I couldn’t see Jackett’s face, but his body language suggested he was getting riled. Ruminatively, T. Laine said, “While you’ve been running around glad-handing, getting ready for the next election, and chatting with the press despite your own gag order, I’ve been evaluating the efficacy of the spelled unis and the null pens against the things happening in the basement. I think I’m close to a conclusion, but I’m not there yet. You got spelled unis? No. You got null pens? No. You don’t. So, go on in, but you and your deputies go in without my gear. Which means your people may die. Otherwise, you’ll wait on my evaluation. Now. Get outta my face and take your insulting witch comments, and let me do my job.” T. Laine pushed past Jackett and gestured to Occam and to me.
We met in the grassy area and I said, “You are my hero.” It was something I’d heard people on TV say to anyone who stood up to unfairness.
T. Laine blew out her frustration. “I look like I’m wasting time, but I’m taking readings every five minutes. Which is whatI should have told him instead of mouthing off.” She shook her head. “Men like that push my buttons. Anyway. It looks as if the unis and null pens, when used together, create a narrow circle of protection around the wearer/holder. But the pens drain fast and need a three-person coven to recharge them, which I don’t have, and I’m down to one box of unis. I haven’t yet determined how wide the protection is, if it totally encircles the wearer, how long the protection lasts, and how much gets through to responders the closer we get to the victims and the bodies. I’m thinking about limiting access to the patients and the basement to twenty minutes, with a sixty-minute break between stints, unis hanging in the sunlight, to reduce recontamination. Then, after sixty minutes total in the house or with victims, the wearer and his gear have to spend time in the null room. If it ever gets here.”
“The North Nashville coven said yes to bringing a null room here?” I asked.
“Yes. But now I can’t raise them on their cells, so I don’t know what to do next or if help is really coming.”
I said, “Maybe pulling a null room messes with the signal?”
“A better answer than them not coming.” She took a deep breath, pulled a water bottle from a pocket of her uni, and drank it down. “And I have to keep everyone away from the basement until I know I have a way to treat their contamination. Stupid-ass sheriff.”
“Your plan sounds good,” Occam drawled. “Sounds like the appropriate thing to do, if not the politically correct way to do it.”
T. Laine made that breathy irritated sound again. “Politically correct? Are you saying I need to apologize?”
