Contagious Page 2

“President Hutchins opted to keep this information secret, yes,” Murray said. “He feared that reports could cause panic as well as a flood of false cases into hospitals that could impede our ability to find real victims. There is also the threat of a lynch-mob mentality that could result in grave harm to Americans guilty of nothing more than having poison ivy or psoriasis.”

Vanessa leaned back in her chair and threw her hands up in disgust. “You see, Mister President? This is why the last eight years have crippled America. The old guard never trusted the people. This is exactly why we’re here, to put an end to government run as a web of lies.”

“I understand you’re enthusiastic about implementing new policies,” Murray said. “But if you don’t mind a little advice, Miss Colburn, you might want to get the whole story before you dismiss the calculated decisions of a former president.”

Vanessa sat forward again and glared at him. John couldn’t suppress a small smile. Murray Longworth was taking a tone with Vanessa Colburn right off the bat? John wondered how long Murray would last.

“By all means,” Vanessa said, smiling her best saccharine smile. “Please continue.”

Murray nodded. “Charlotte Wilson was just the first case we discovered.” He pointed a remote control at the screen.

click

Gary Leeland: An old man, very much alive, with hateful eyes that would have commanded full attention were it not for the one-inch-wide bluish triangle on his neck.

“This man checked in to the hospital, then hours later set his hospital bed on fire. He burned alive.”

click

Martin Brewbaker: A corpse on a morgue table, covered with blackened third-degree burns, legs cut off below the knees.

“This man killed three people: his wife, his six-year-old daughter and, when we tried to apprehend him, a CIA agent named Malcolm Johnson.”

click

Blaine Tanarive: A charred, rotted corpse, little more than a skeleton coated with gossamer green fibers.

“This one also killed his family,” Murray said. “We found him after he’d died.”

John wasn’t smiling anymore. He stared at the last picture. “What happened to him?”

Murray looked at the picture for a moment, then turned back to face John and his staff.

“Once the hosts die, their bodies decompose at an extremely advanced rate. Corpses break down to nothing but a blackened skeleton in less than two days.”

John watched Donald, Vanessa and Tom. That had always been his strength, the ability to watch people, to understand them from facial expressions, posture, movement.

Tom looked like he wanted to vomit. Donald clearly believed. Vanessa was starting to. And in believing, Vanessa grew more and more angry. Most people wouldn’t have seen it, but John knew her better than most. A secret like this, kept from the American people . . . she would want someone’s head. Unfortunately for Murray Longworth, that head would likely be his.

click

Perry Dawsey: A giant of a man lying on a hospital bed, eyes closed, chest exposed, arms and legs locked down with heavy canvas straps. A black, oozing sore on his right collarbone, white bandages covering his right forearm, tubes going into his nose and arms.

“Perry Dawsey,” Donald said. “I know that name. Isn’t he that football player who went crazy and murdered his friend? ‘Scary’ Perry Dawsey?”

Murray nodded. “Dawsey is the only known survivor. He had seven parasites, which he cut out of himself, removing the final one five weeks ago.”

“Jesus Christ,” Vanessa said. “Look at this body count, and you kept it secret? What are you, some kind of monster?”

Now it was Murray’s turn to smile a little. John immediately disliked that expression—it was the smile of a hunter. Murray Longworth clearly loved the game, and he was used to winning, no matter what the cost.

“Funny you should mention monsters,” Murray said. “We put together a team to investigate the situation, led by CIA operative Dew Phillips. Through Phillips’s work we discovered that the parasites leave the human host and became free-moving organisms.”

If the Oval Office hadn’t had such nice rug, you could have heard a pin drop.

“Murray,” John said, talking slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Are you telling us that these triangular growths . . . hatch out of people?”

“That’s correct, Mister President,” Murray said. “We even refer to them as hatchlings.”

“And then what?” Donald said. “Do they walk on their own or something?”

“That’s correct, Mister Secretary,” Murray said. “Not only do they walk, they operate as a unit. Hatchlings tried to build and activate a construct that we believe is either some kind of gateway or a weapon. This is footage shot by army soldiers in Wahjamega, Michigan.”

Murray cued the video. The quality was fairly good. John saw soldiers, trees and then something deeper in the winter woods . . . something glowing. It looked like a big archway, maybe twenty feet high at the apex, an illuminated wedding band half-buried in the muddy forest floor. Inside of that he could see three more arches, each smaller, each farther back. It was like looking into a glowing cone.

And creatures, scurrying over the arches like termites on a rotten log. A strange skin growth was one thing, but this . . . this wasn’t even remotely possible. John felt a cold tingle wash over his skin. If this was real, than it had to be . . . what? Aliens? Demons? This just couldn’t be happening.

“No way,” Vanessa said. “There’s no way that’s real. Why are you wasting the president’s time with special effects?”

“It’s real, ma’am,” Murray said.

John leaned forward for a closer look, his a.s.s barely on the edge of his chair. “Just what the h.e.l.l are those supposed to be?”