37
Kieslingstraße 14, Nuremberg, Germany
July 3
It was so hot the mask was slipping off her face, slick with sweat, as she sat in the bedroom, sketching the quiet little house across the street, a massive tree throwing shadows across the lawn. There was a breeze making the light yellow curtains flutter, but the summer was impossibly dry and stifling, and the wind carried no relief.
She checked the clock again, waited until she saw a digit change. Two o’clock in the afternoon, and she was sitting in bed, wearing a tank top and underwear, waiting. The clock jumped another minute and she put down the sketchbook and the pencil, lumbered over to the window and peered out over the lazy street below. A bead of sweat fell off her nose and onto her arm.
Just then, a knock at the door made her jump. She ran to the bed, threw her artwork to the floor, and sauntered over to the door, placing an inviting hand up the frame, and creaking it open gradually to give Rhodri a warm welcome.
“Well hello there,” she said in her best sultry voice.
But it wasn’t Rhodri.
“Oh shit!” she spat, and ran back into the room, snatching a thin blanket off the bed and wrapping herself quickly. The door swung open at the hand of a large and wide man, heavy muscles bulging through his drenched short-sleeved business shirt.
“Hi,” he said in Russian, smiling in a way that he meant to be embarrassment, but was something less. “Lookin’ for Rhodri.”
Eva shrugged, moved back around the bed, covering herself more.
“He’s not home yet. But. But he’ll be here any minute, so—”
“So I’ll just take a break, thanks,” said the man, and he reached outside and slid a large cardboard box into the room, closing the door quietly. He pulled a folded magazine from his back pocket and waved non-existent cool air onto himself.
“You got any lemonade?” he asked, cricking his neck. “Or just water? Anything cold-like?”
Eva darted a look to the small mini-fridge they had by the window. She smiled weakly.
“Cold bottled water?”
“Fucking awesome,” he exclaimed.
She made her way over to the fridge, carefully holding the blanket around her, and pulled open the door. There were two bottles left, and she took the one with the dent in the side, handed it to the stranger carefully.
“Thanks. You want any?”
She shook her head no.
“Suits me,” he said, and downed the bottle in one go. “I’m Dmitri, by the way.”
Eva was so shocked, she dropped the blanket, had to rush to catch it before it hit the ground.
“You’re Dmitri? Wow! Oh, sorry, I didn’t know what you… I mean you never…”
“I’m the silent partner, yeah,” he said with a grin. “You oughta get some shorts on Eva. Gotta be hotter in that blanket than anythin’ else.”
She nodded, backed away, snatched her shorts off the end of the bed, and slipped into the bathroom. She heard Dmitri tromping around the room, the sound of him shoving things around on their table, and the cardboard box sliding on.
“So no idea when your boy gets home?” he called to her.
She finished changing, came out into the room, pacing anxiously.
“None at all,” she said. “he’s usually home by twelve-thirty.”
“For your ‘afternoons off’?” Dmitri said with a grin.
“Uh…”
“Yeah, he told me you wanted those. Refused to say why.” He observed her appreciatively. “But I’ve figured it out, just now.”
She blushed, backed into the other side of the room.
“I guess I should thank you for all the help you’ve given us for the last few months,” she said. “I know Rhodri always says we’d have died of starvation if it weren’t for you.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Dmitri said. “Rhodri’s a pretty smart kid. I’m sure, between the two of you, you’d have found a way to make ends meet.”
There was something about the last part of the sentence that hung in the air, and so neither one spoke for a moment.
“So what’s in the box?” Eva asked, trying to lighten things again.
“The usual equipment. Refills.”
“Refills? For websites?”
“Something like that,” he said, tossing the empty bottle to the garbage, a perfect shot. “You keep in touch with anyone from Italy? Austria?”
Eva shook her head sadly.
“No, I didn’t get to go out much except to sell my art. Didn’t have many clients, and fewer friends.”
“Read the news much?”
Eva frowned.
“I can’t read German. Can I… why do you ask?”
Dmitri shrugged.
“Things in the news, is all. Don’t worry about it.”
Eva was unsure. Dmitri checked his watch suddenly, wincing.
“Listen, I’ve gotta catch a train soon. Can you make sure Rhodri gets this box as soon as he gets in?”
“Absolutely,” Eva said, the imminent departure releasing her tension. “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
Dmitri nodded.
“Do that. And can you tell him to call me? We need to chat, I think.”
“Of course,” she said.
Dmitri strode to the door, put a hand on the knob, then paused, turned back.
“Say, Eva,” he began, then lay silent for a moment, thinking. “You… you don’t help ol’ Rhodri out with his work, do you? I mean, when you’re not paintin’ and such?”
“No,” Eva said, shaking her head slowly. “Rhodri keeps the work stuff at work, so I don’t hear much about it. Why?”
Dmitri shrugged, scratched his chin.
“It’s nothing,” he said, his good humour returning. “Just didn’t want him dragging you into the nuts and bolts, if you know what I mean. Work is work, and home is home, as you say. I’m just thinkin’ ahead of myself here. Pay no attention.”
He smiled, waved, opened the door.
“See ya later, kid,” he said, then let himself out.
Eva stood there in the empty room, chilled despite the heat, and stared at the cardboard box on the table. A thin layer of tape held the flaps shut, but it was already re-sealed once, Eva could tell. She stood over, fingers dancing across the rough brown surface, thinking.
The door was closed, no sounds from outside. She checked the clock again, then back to the box.
Carefully, very carefully, she pulled the tape loose.
The first thing she saw was a stack of long and thin boxes, wrapped in words in all languages, but one leapt out at her: “Incubator Refill”. She took it out, opened it, slid out one of three long plastic tubes, filled with a milky gelatin, its cap a smooth brass disc. She ran her finger down the side; it was cold, sterile, vicious.
She dropped it back into the package, closed it carefully, hands shaking. Next to it was a folder, and inside was a data disc, marked with pen, scratchy and sloppy:
Nuremberg-A1
Code and Instructions
Her mind in a haze, Eva put the disc down on the table, flipped through the papers in the folder: reams of hex code, instructions in a syntax she didn’t understand… ten thousand lines of them. She closed them, replaced them in the box gently, and accidentally toppled over a small container with a bright orange lid.
She picked it up, and saw it was filled with a clear liquid. It had the same writing on it as the disc: Nuremberg-A1.
“You fucker,” she gasped. “What have you done?”
She put the container back into the box, rifled through the rest and came to a red folder which she tore open, and then staggered back at what she saw. Newspaper articles, a huge array of them, printed badly, detailing death at the hands of viruses that had killed thousands. She shivered as she saw the places, the dates… Modena, Italy; Graz, Austria, Linz…
She turned round, saw the door behind her, saw the clock, saw the bed, and just stood there, unmoving.
Outside, the first breeze in weeks blew by, and she heard the distant laughter of children, a dog barking. She looked back at the box, at the orange container, the disc. She grabbed them up, ran to the dresser, threw it open and pulled out random clothes, scattershot, throwing them into her old backpack, shoving it full.
She found a framed photo of her and Rhodri, just after Italy, intertwined happily in the countryside. She threw it against the wall, the glass shattering all over the bed.
At the door, she felt the weight of the orange-topped container in her hand, and she looked at the bed, the shards there, and down at the poison she held. She wound up, ready to throw… but then, then she squeezed it, shoved it into her backpack, and ran out the door and away; never once looking back.