Contagious Page 132

PEOPLE HELPING PEOPLE

Get up, Perry. I need you.

Coughing.

Dust, the taste of smoke, the taste of dirt, the taste of . . .

(don’t think about it)

. . . of scorched flesh. In his mouth.

More coughing.

But not just from the brick and dirt and smoke and wood and the (don’t think about it) scorched flesh, coughing from something deeper, way down in his lungs.

Something that burned.

Perry knew. He felt stabbing pains all through his skin, his face, in his muscles and eyes. They were inside him.

It’s time for you to join me.

It was her again. In his head. He’d thought the gate was the most beautiful thing he would ever experience. He was wrong. As rapturous as that gate was, it paled in comparison to the voice.

Come to me, Perry. Get me out of here.

So beautiful. He’d heard her before, but he’d been hundreds of miles away. Now there was no distance, no jamming, no grayness—her pure, raw power raged through his soul.

Perry stood and stumbled down the street. Men were all around, the brave guys of Whiskey Company, rolling on the ground, coughing, spitting up blood. They were all totally f.u.c.ked.

Just like Perry.

And there, lying in the middle of the street . . . Dew Phillips.

Just relax and let it happen. You’ll be stronger now. You’ll be like me. Come to me, Perry. Protect me.

Perry shuffled toward Dew. The man was on his back, mouth opening and closing. He saw Perry and managed to smile, then shrug.

Dew knew the deal.

“Sorry . . . kid,” he said, his voice a hoa.r.s.e croak. “Looks like . . . we’re not going fishing after all.”

Kill him.

Dew’s face screwed into a pinched mask of agony. Perry knew what Dew was feeling, because he felt that same pain himself. The difference was, Perry and pain were long-lost buddies.

Dew’s wave of pain seemed to fade for a second. He blinked rapidly, then coughed, b.l.o.o.d.y foam splattering onto his lips.

“Kid . . . get my radio. See if Margaret got out.”

Perry nodded. “I will.”

Kill him. Do it now.

“I’m proud of you, Perry,” Dew said. “Maybe you don’t . . . have t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es . . . but you sure got b.a.l.l.s.”

Dew Phillips actually laughed. Or started to, then he coughed up a little blood.

Perry saw his .45 lying on the ground. The one that had belonged to Dew for thirty-some years.

Kill him!

“Thank you, for everything,” Perry said. “And I’m sorry about this, but I have to.”

Perry put the .45 against Dew’s forehead.

“Kid? What . . .”

Perry closed his eyes, kept his hand perfectly still and pulled the trigger.

Then he turned away and walked toward the building.

Chelsea had called for him, G.o.d had called for him, and he had to obey.

RIDE TO LIVE

The black Harley Night Rod Special roared down the sidewalk of East Jefferson Avenue. Sh.e.l.l-shocked people ran out of the way, only too eager to flee from yet another potential threat—a loud-as-h.e.l.l motorcycle carrying two people in black hazmat suits.

Bodies lined the sidewalk and the street, the corpses of people who had resisted the hostage roundup of Ogden’s men. Clarence wove around those bodies, around cars that had driven onto the sidewalk and crashed into buildings, and around a few people wandering aimlessly, clawing at their eyes, their faces, their arms. Margaret saw traces of gray dust everywhere. As they drove, the dust thinned until she saw no more of it. They’d driven out of the puffball’s expansive blast radius.

Now the only spores would be on their hazmat suits.

Even with the parking-lot-like traffic jam, the Harley moved along at a brisk pace, its obscenely loud engine a long-distance warning to anything that might stand in its way. Within minutes they saw the high-school football field on the left. Sitting on it, a MargoMobile and two Ospreys.

An icon illuminated on her heads-up display—wireless connection. Her suit computer had picked up the communication net from the new MargoMobile.

“This is Doctor Margaret Montoya!” she shouted as Clarence turned sharply on Mount Elliot. “Prepare for immediate evacuation. Patch me through to Murray Longworth on this frequency right now, open the airlock door, then everyone out of the trailers and onto the Osprey. Get it warmed up. We’re out of here in three minutes. Do not approach me, I am contagious.”

A block later they reached the football field’s main gate. A guard had been there, but she saw only his back as he sprinted for the Osprey. Clarence drove the roaring motorcycle through the gate onto the field and stopped at the MargoMobile’s airlock door.

As soon as the bike’s engine died out, Margaret heard Murray’s voice in her helmet speakers. “Margaret, what’s going on?”

She and Clarence sprinted for the airlock. She’d been running forever, it seemed, and every last muscle screamed in protest. She entered, and he shut the door behind them. The instant the air pressure equalized, she opened the door to the decontamination chamber.

“Margaret,” Murray said, “answer me!”

“It’s contagious,” she said through heavy breaths. She ran to the controls as Clarence shut the second airlock door. She hit the controls and the room filled with the bleach/chlorine spray.

“We know it’s contagious,” Murray said.

“No, you don’t get it.” She raised her arms and slowly turned, letting the mist wash over her. “It’s airborne. It replicates inside people, fills them up like a puffball till they burst.”

“Okay, how do we contain that? Where’s Dew?”

“Dew is infected,” Margaret said. “So is Perry; all of them are. There’s nothing we can do for them, Murray, and if we have any hope at containing this, we need to act right now.”