In the Land of Milk and Honey Read Online Free PDF Page B

talk to the CDC. I don’t really wanna bring in the crime-scene team, at least not until I hear what the experts say about protocol. But if you and Danielle want to continue to record what you can without disturbing anything—
or
taking off your gear—go ahead. I’m gonna go make that—”
    There was a loud knocking from downstairs. Someone was pounding on the front door. Grady and I looked at each other and we both headed down. When Grady opened the door, the neighbor, Jacob Henner, was standing there with an officer in uniform. Jacob’s face was wild.
    Not wanting to expose the men to whatever was in the house,I stepped out onto the porch. Grady followed and shut the door behind him.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked the cop, still speaking through his face mask.
    â€œTell ’em,” the cop said, looking at Jacob.
    His face was red and his eyes bright with unshed tears.
    What now?
I thought, feeling a new wave of dread. Was Jacob’s family sick too?
    â€œTh-thought I should tend to their animals,” he stuttered, his voice thick. “Went into the barn. The cows . . . the cows’re sick too.”
    â€œShow me,” I said, starting off the porch. Grady followed.
    The barn door was open, banging in the April wind that had sprung up. As we crossed the yard, I would have given a week’s pay to be able to strip off the confining suit and gloves, to peel the mask off my face, and breathe as much fresh air as I could get. The toxic, smothering smell of death and bile and sickness inside the house had seeped into my skin, hair, and mouth. But I didn’t dare remove anything. Would I have to be sprayed down with disinfectant? I didn’t even know. I was so out of my depth.
    Inside the barn, Jacob led us over to a bar gate that opened into a large stall. The end of the stall was open to the pasture. Jacob went inside and held the gate for us. I looked at the manure-and-straw-covered floor of the stall and realized that, if I went in there, there’d be no going back into the house, at least not without visiting the hazmat RV again to change boots. I paused for only a moment though—this felt important. I stepped into thestall, and Grady came in behind me. The uniformed cop stayed on the other side.
    â€œThis way,” said Jacob, still shaky.
    He led us through the stall to the pasture. Just beyond the barn was a dead cow. It was light tan in color and fairly small, probably a calf. I recognized it as a Jersey, the docile and cream-rich dairy breed the Amish preferred. The carcass was lying up against the white wall of the barn, as if it had been sheltering there. Flies buzzed around it, and its tongue was out and bloated, its legs stiff.
    â€œThat one’s dead. ’N’ that one’s sick,” Jacob said, pointing.
    A few feet away, a full-grown light brown cow stood, staring at us with enormous eyes. It blinked and seemed to want to start toward us, but after one hesitant step it stopped. Its entire body shook, its flank trembling. It bleated out a cry. Foamy mucus hung from its nose in ropes.
    Feeling sick, I put a hand to my mask.
    â€œShe needs to be milked,” Jacob said, his voice tight. “Her udder’s so full ’n’ she’s in pain. Probably been a whole day or more. But I dunno if I should touch her. Do ya think I should go ahead and milk her? She’s sick, but she needs to be milked real bad.”
    Grady cleared his throat. “We should probably call in the ASPCA.”
    â€œShe needs to be milked right away,” Jacob repeated. This was a man used to taking care of things, not calling in someone else to take care of them for him.
    As much as I hated to see the cow suffer, this felt all wrong, sowrong it prickled the hairs on the back of my neck in warning. “Don’t touch her. We don’t know how long she’s been sick or what she has. She might even have given it to the family.