Rabid Outbreak

My name is Harold Green. I am a Pinkerton (a fact that may be cleared up in time). I tell this story, as no one else will take it up, and I am left to tell it to those that have the kindness to listen to what surely comes off as the delusions of a madman.

Our story begins with a child. I do not know how to explain his behavior. He was angry, threw fits, bit, screamed, and kicked whenever handled. He was unable to drink water, making me wonder if rabies was the cause. The ones that he had bitten were quarantined themselves, and over time they had begun to exhibit similar symptoms.

But the story is not quite so simple. They acted more than rabid. I cannot find the words to describe it. Nor would I want to -- such things should not have words for them. After a certain period of time, the victims grew more and more savage. I'll never forget the look of Emily Robertson as she stood over her doctor, a knife in her hand, a grin on her face. A quiet schoolmarm had, over the course of a few nights, turned into a ruthless savage killer that seemed to revel in it. I cannot chalk up her experiences to simple hallucination alone... she seemed otherwise lucid, if incredibly dangerous. All of the victims had been locked up in the most extreme of quarantines that we could muster. But it was not enough.

Subsequent investigations turned up nothing, except for one day, when by chance, a squirrel was found with a severed finger. The squirrel exhibited signs of being rabid; it danced, chirped, and exhibited erratic and unpredictable behavior. We were not sure whether the squirrel was infected before it had eaten at the finger or not, but we knew that the finger did not belong to any of those quarantined – so there was a very significant chance that the infectious disease was still out there, in victims not yet found.

A few days later, something even stranger occurred. I received a letter, from a well-renowned doctor in the area, a Dr. Lovington; had had somewhat disappeared from the scene of civilization, having retreated into a cabin to treat only those that were brought to him (which was uncommon, and only for the most dire of circumstances). The envelope seemed old, and upon opening the letter, I saw a note with barely legible handwriting. What was odd was that the letter seemed stained. Given that the stains were of a dark maroon, I could only assume that it was the product of dried blood, which was even further worrying.

The Doctor asked me, in not entirely of the most polite of language, to cease my investigations. He stated that a Pinkerton agent was not equipped with the knowledge or tools necessary to combat an epidemic. While I might have agreed, there was no doubt in my mind that we were facing the possibility of an epidemic that could put the entire U.S. in danger; while this starts in a small town of Idaho, there was already worry enough to cause some to leave Idaho for other lands… those that could be carriers of the disease. Not to mention that there seemed to be very few actual professionals on the case.

I responded in a way that perhaps would have surprised the doctor as much as his letter had surprised me; instead of responding, I simply decided to visit his house. He had been difficult to contact in the beginnings of the epidemic, and he would not answer his door. Matters had not changed, and I decided to let myself in. While the door was locked, I must say, I took less than subtle measures in getting past the door – an action I have yet to regret.

Upon entering the large cabin of Doctor Lovington, I was assailed with the scent of dust and the overall feeling that the cabin was not well-used, or perhaps not well-cleaned. Sitting facing his furniture in the cabin was a fireplace, which seemed too clean of ash to have been used in recent times. The wooden furniture itself, made of a dark wood stock of some sort, was covered in a quarter of inch of dust. My short investigation throughout the cabin revealed a stairway leading down; with every step, I could hear voices down there, and with every step, this feeling of trepidation grew within my gut.

I saw him then. He had a child, in a chair. The child perhaps was dead, but his scalp and skull had been cut open, and the doctor was poised over it, poking at the inside with a scalpel and a magnifying glass, various stained doctor’s instruments lying around the area.

It was then that I realized that the child was still alive; his chest rose up and down, in the monotonous rhythm of sleep. Before I stepped into the room, my gun was in my hand. The doctor looked up at me, surprised at my entry.

It was there that I learned a terrible secret that I will carry with me to my grave, etched clear into my memory, never to leave it. He lied to me, but I got the truth out of him, and I am not ashamed to admit that I used less than gentle methods.

I will never forget the words of the doctor. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked with a grin, his scalpel held before him; he knew I wasn’t quite ready to shoot him yet, as then I would never learn how to rectify things. He revealed to me that he made the epidemic, as one of his mad studies. I will never forget his words… or how the child’s eyes flashed open, to watch us blankly. Rabies is a mental disease, and he was cultivating it… making victims into that which he wanted, to make them slaves.

I shot him six times.