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Clay looked over my shoulder as I read: it was a public health announcement, warning of cholera in the municipal water supply.
"Cholera?" I said. "I thought it was E. coli."
"So did they, at first, I suspect," Jeremy said. "That would be the natural assumption, given the source and the symptoms."
"What's cholera?" Nick asked.
"It's a bacterium that gets into the water. Overcrowding and poor sanitation are the usual culprits. It's almost unknown in the Western world now, but it was a serious problem in the nineteenth century."
"Victorian England," I said.
Jeremy nodded.
Cholera is an intestinal infection, not unlike E. coli. The main symptoms are diarrhea and vomiting, which can lead to dehydration and eventual death, but only if left untreated. With treatment and fluid replacement, the fatality rate is less than 1 percent.
Cholera is transmitted through feces, primarily by food and water becoming contaminated with raw sewage. Jeremy was pretty sure London's cholera problem had been resolved shortly before the time of Jack the Ripper, but sporadic cases had continued, as the problems of overcrowding and poor hygiene continued.
As for how cholera got into Toronto's water supply...according to Jeremy it was well-nigh impossible. It shouldn't happen with modern sewage and water systems. Not by any natural means. But by now we were pretty sure "natural means" had nothing to do with the problems Toronto was experiencing.
Opening that portal had let out more than a couple of Victorian zombies. Jaime had warned us about smallpox leaking through that other portal. Somehow these zombies had brought a little of their home with them...and all of our modern precautions couldn't protect against it.
"Cholera isn't a cause for concern," Jeremy said. "If it was, we'd be leaving. Tourism will suffer, which the city doesn't need after last year's SARS outbreak, but that's likely to be the extent of the damage. It was caught quickly enough to avoid fatalities or long-term health problems."
When I didn't answer, he glanced back at me. "If you're concerned, go ahead and call your local media contacts."
I made those calls. I'd been dying to since all this started, but Jeremy had wanted me keeping a low profile. He didn't think they could add anything we weren't finding in the papers, and he was right. They did, however, reassure me that the city didn't seem to be downplaying the severity of the cholera outbreak. If anything, after SARS, they were being overcautious. Right now, they were busy trying to clean up the system, which seemed to be far more difficult than it should be, confirming this was no natural outbreak.
We stopped in Kensington market on the way back to the hotel to load up on food. While the guys did that, I stayed in the SUV and listened to the radio. Clay stayed with me, although after five minutes hearing him grouse about wanting fresh air and a leg stretch, I shoved him out, locked the door and let him get his air and exercise pacing around the vehicle and pounding on the windows.
Finding reliable news updates on the cholera situation wasn't easy. The national broadcaster, CBC, paraded a steady queue of public officials, who all repeated the same message: "Everything is under control." As if, by getting enough people to say it, it would become truth.
Then there were the private stations. A talk radio show had a historian on who was giving graphic accounts of Victorian cholera outbreaks. Then I hit a classic rock station located outside Toronto that kept gleefully referring to the situation as a cholera "epidemic," and speculating that it was caused by the city's high population density, congratulating themselves for living elsewhere. Next came a station playing only prerecorded music--I suspected a lone sound technician had lost the straw-draw, staying behind while all his coworkers headed for the hills...or at least Barrie.
I'd reached a contemporary station morning show, complete with giggling hosts, when Jeremy rapped at the window. I opened the door and climbed into the back as they loaded the groceries into the rear hatch.
Back to the hotel. As we walked into the lobby, Nick was telling us about his trip to Cleveland last week, where he'd sat in on labor dispute talks at one of his father's factories.
Clay looked over at Antonio. "What'd he do to deserve that?"
Antonio laughed. "It wasn't a punishment. He volunteered."
I nudged Nick. "So what'd you do...that you haven't told him about yet?"
"Ha-ha. I volunteered with no ulterior motive. I told you I'm trying to learn more about the business."
"So how'd it go?"
"It was...interesting."
"In other words, boring as hell," Clay said as we passed the lounge. "In Cleveland, no less."
"Cleveland's not that bad--"
"Jeremy!" a woman's voice called.
We all turned, tracking her to the lounge. There, in one of the oversized armchairs, a woman was getting to her feet, hand raised in a hesitant wave, an even more hesitant smile on her face. She wore a yellow sundress that showed off a generous portion of bare leg. Red hair tumbled down her back in that sort of artless, sexy tangle you usually only see on cover models.
"Jaime," Jeremy said, and headed toward her.
