Doctor Mosquito

1 - Hunger

Dr. Samuel Pierce scanned the neighboring campsites but nothing suspicious caught his eye tonight. To his left, a middle-aged couple sat under the canopy of a vintage Airstream while they played cribbage and sipped Moscow Mules from copper cups. Not a threat. To his right, a group of twenty-somethings played a game of cornhole and listened to My Chemical Romance on a portable speaker. But no one from their group even gave Sam a sideways glance. The sweet smell of pine mingled with camp smoke, bug spray, and meat cooking over a fire. It brought back the memories of camping as a kid, but not the joy. It had been so long since he had felt joy. He wasn't sure he could feel it anymore.

Sam sat in a tattered green camping chair and rubbed the smoke from his eyes. Whichever side of the fire he sat on the smoke seemed to follow him. He picked up his chair and repositioned it to the other side. Sam's two boys, seven-year-old Doug and nine-year-old Aaron, were leaning into the fire with skewers made from branches they had stripped clean. They were silent just like Sam taught them and focused on the hotdogs roasting on the ends of their sticks. Sam had stolen the pack of hotdogs from the camp store and the boys devoured most of them uncooked. They had scarcely eaten for days. How long had it been since they had a proper meal? Four weeks? Five? Sam couldn't remember. The hunger and lack of sleep left him foggy.

He could hear his wife, Claire, poking around in the hatchback of their rusted VW Rabbit that was hidden in the bushes. The car had no license plate but the campground manager didn't notice when they stopped to register. Sam made up a plate number as they signed in and they motored in as casually as they could.

Claire touched him on the shoulder and he jumped.

"Christ," he said and put his hand on his chest.

"You need to relax. We haven't seen them for almost two weeks," said Claire. He knew that didn't mean anything. They could blend in. One of them was a middle-aged woman serving ice cream at a DQ in Dubuque. That was a close call. Another looked like a friendly old man at a gas station in Fargo but Sam saw a gun tucked into the man's belt when he bent over to pick up a coin. They were tapped into his family's email accounts and cell phones. Sam ditched those months ago. Credit cards were out of the question. Any electronic transaction made it far too easy to track him so Sam zigzagged across the country for a while. And backtracked. He paid only in cash. The most important thing was to keep a low profile. Blend in. Do your best to never get noticed.

"You did that on purpose!" screamed Aaron. Sam jerked his head around. The boys were fighting over a hotdog that had fallen to the ground. It was covered in dirt and ash.

Sam let out a quick "shhhhh!" but the boys didn't hear him and started to push each other.

"Dad, he knocked mine into the fire on purpose!" shouted Aaron.

"Did not!" Doug shouted back.

Sam looked around in a panic. None of the other campers seemed to be paying them any attention. At least not yet. He had to stop this.

"I said be quiet," he said in an angry whisper.

"Give me yours!" shouted Aaron.

"No!" Doug shouted back. "Mom, he's taking my hotdog!"

Sam jumped up and grabbed both of them by the arms. The force knocked Doug's stick out of his hand and his hotdog fell to the ground too. He started to cry.

"Shut up!" said Sam. But the boy only cried more loudly. Sam shook him.

"Dad, stop!" said Aaron. "Don't hurt him!"

But Sam had lost control. He slapped Doug. Then he picked him up and put his hand over the boy's mouth. Aaron kicked his father in the leg.

"Stop it Dad! He can't breathe!" shouted Aaron. Doug's face was turning red and his eyes were wide with fear.

"Is there a problem over here?" A booming voice startled them. A large man in a flannel shirt and a beard was walking by and noticed the commotion. Aaron thought he looked like the lumberjack on the side of the paper towel package, except this man was bald.

"Mind your own business," said Sam.

"If I see some guy beating on his kids, I'm making it my business," said the man. He shined his flashlight around the campsite, then directly into Sam's face. Claire cleared her throat and the large man shined the light on her. He hadn't seen her in the shadows.

"Sam, dear. Please put Dougie down," she said. Sam looked at her then back at the man. He put Doug down and the boy ran into his mother's arms. She held his hand and walked slowly toward the man with the beard.

"Everything is fine," she said in a soothing voice. The man softened his stance and lowered the flashlight. "Tell the man everything is fine," she said to Doug. But Doug buried his tear-streaked face into his mother's side. "I appreciate your concern. We are all a little grouchy tonight. We get like that when we haven't had dinner. You understand, right?"

The man looked at her, back at Sam, then back at her again.

"If you need help, I'm two sites down," said the man. "Enjoy your evening." Then he walked away.

Damn, that was close. The last thing Sam wanted was an altercation. If it had gotten out of hand someone could call the police then it would be all over. Sam bent over and picked up the hotdogs and brushed them off on his jeans. He offered one to Aaron but he refused it. Then he brought one to Doug, but he wouldn't make eye contact. So Sam sat on the picnic table and ate the hotdogs himself.

Claire sat Doug down in a chair near the fire then walked up behind Sam and rubbed his shoulders. God, this woman was a saint. How could he have put her in this situation? How could he have done this to his boys? He didn't know it would come to this. He didn't know that they would be hunted.

"You need to sleep," she said. "You are no good to us when you are like this. I'll keep watch." Sam started to refuse but he felt weak. She was right - he had reached his limit. It wasn't the first time. A mosquito bit him in the neck and he smacked it. His arms and legs were covered with itchy swollen red marks. Damn bugs. He was getting eaten alive. He unzipped the tent, climbed inside one of the dirty sleeping bags and closed his eyes. His mind was a whirlwind.

He needed a plan. He couldn't keep running. The world needed to see what was coming. But was it ready to see? Would it accept the truth, crazy as it sounded? Should he put it online? The photos. His research. A map of the facility. They would take it down in the blink of an eye. They controlled it all. He could go to the media. Find a sympathetic reporter - a young gun looking for his first big story. This was Pulitzer material, but would any reporter take him seriously? He looked and smelled like a crazy homeless guy, his hair tangled and dirty, his clothes stained and torn. His story would sound like the rantings of someone who had come unhinged. No, he couldn't risk it. If he put his neck out, he would lose his head. Better to keep low. Keep moving.

Then he heard a scream.

"Sam, get out here!" It was his wife. But where was she? He heard horrible choking and gurgling noises outside as he desperately groped around in the dark, his mind half awake. The sides of the tent bulged as he beat and tore at them. When he found the zipper he ripped it open and crawled out of the tent like an animal scurrying out of its den. He saw the boys first. They were both lying on their sides next to the fire. Aaron was completely still but Doug twitched as he vomited green bile. His wife had collapsed over the picnic table. Sam felt his chest getting tighter and tighter as his breath was squeezed out of him. Had they been poisoned? It must have been the hotdogs! But how did they find us? How did they get into the food? No, it was impossible. Sam crawled toward the boys but a blinding pain erupted in his head and rippled through his body. As he gasped his last breath the glowing embers of the fire faded into black ash.