Contagious Page 82

The boogeyman made Chelsea afraid. That wasn’t fair.

Now it was his turn to be scared.

FACING HIS PAST

Perry Dawsey had never been claustrophobic. Then again, he’d never been crammed into a full-body suit obviously not made for someone his size, then walked into a friggin’ semi trailer so jam-packed with stuff he had to turn sideways to walk through these pitiful excuses for aisles.

But claustrophobia was the least of his concerns. The naked woman in the clear gla.s.s containment cell took up most of his attention.

Her, and what was on her. In her.

Tight restraints held her wrists, ankles and waist. She was crying. Perry felt shame wash over him, shame at how he’d treated Fatty Patty. He’d screamed at Patty. He’d hit her. Cut her. Watched her die, hoping that in the process he could learn something that might help him save himself. He hadn’t even been a man then.

Milner was right.

Perry was a monster.

The woman in the chamber pulled weakly against the leather straps.

“Those restraints tight?” Dew asked Margaret.

“G.o.dd.a.m.n right they are,” Margaret said. “I put those on myself. Any tighter and she’d lose circulation.”

Margaret’s voice sounded colder than before. Colder and harder, as though maybe cutting off that woman’s circulation wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world after all. That wasn’t the voice she’d used when she was helping him recover, or sewing up the cuts Dew had given him. Then she’d sounded like she cared, like she really wanted to help. Now? Now she had a touch of disgust in her voice. Maybe even a slight helping of hate.

“Please,” the woman sobbed. “Please, let me go. I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Try to relax, Bernadette,” Margaret said. “We want to help you.”

“LIAR!” the woman screamed. “You’re the POLICE! You want to cut me up!”

She couldn’t move anything but her head, so move it she did, thrashing it around as if she were being electrocuted. Her sweaty brown hair flew in all directions. Her face carried an expression of wide-eyed terror one second, psychotic fury the next, then back again.

The triangles stared out. With their black eyes, they could have been looking anywhere, but Perry knew they were looking right at him.

Sonofab.i.t.c.h. You will die. Your death will be worse than the rest.

Perry took a half step back. That sensation of grayness remained, but whatever was jamming him, it didn’t work this close to a triangle. He hadn’t expected that—he’d hoped to come in, not hear a thing, then get the f.u.c.k out.

Perry didn’t realize he was shaking until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Take it easy, Perry,” Dew said. “They can’t get to you.”

“I gotta get out of here, Dew. I gotta get out.”

Dew’s voice stayed low. Low and calm. “What you gotta do is focus. We need to talk to these things. We need the location of the next gate, and you’re the only one who can get it.”

“But Dew—”

“Listen to me,” Dew said. “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to. You can’t bring Bill back, but this is your chance to make it right. You have to take it.”

Dew was right. Dew had fought, had sacrificed. He wasn’t asking Perry to do anything he wouldn’t do himself.

“Can they hear me in there?” Perry asked.

Margaret nodded. “There are speakers in the cell. The microphone in your earpiece picks up your voice. They can hear you just fine.”

Perry nodded inside the helmet. Now he was grateful for the suit, because if he p.i.s.sed himself no one would see. He cleared his throat. For some reason he remembered the punch line to an old joke: It’s sure not gonna suck itself.

No more waiting.

“I’m supposed to talk to you,” he said. “Figure out what you want.”

We want kill you. You are the destroyer.

Full sentences. Punctuation. Soon they would tear free from the woman’s body.

“Where is the next gate?”

Nothing.

“You want to . . . open up the door, I know that. What’s going to come through?”

Ayyynnngellls.

Angels. Coming through the gate. Perry had never heard that from his own triangles, and there was something profoundly disturbing about it.

The angels are coming. People build for them," just like we do. We’re going to make your life a living h.e.l.l,"just like we do. We’re going to make your life a living h.e.l.l, and that’s what you deserve, you cheating b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

They seemed different, different from his own triangles, the ones he had called the Magnificent Seven. Different from Fatty Patty’s triangles and hatchlings. These three sounded feminine, but caustic, angry. Perry wondered what Bernadette Smith’s personality had been like before the infections. Something told Perry there was one word for it—b.i.t.c.h.

“What did they say?” Dew asked.

“Hard to tell,” Perry said. “I think whatever is coming through wants to make us build things.”

“Build things?” Dew said. He spoke louder, as if that would held him be heard inside the containment cell. “What are we going to build for you?”

You’ll do what you’re told or you’ll get the paddle.

“They’re not going to say what it is,” Perry said. “I can tell. So much hate, derision coming off them . . . I think they want to make us slaves.”

“Oh f.u.c.k that,” Dew said. “The Jewells. Ask them where the Jewells are, see if you get any vibes.”

Kill him. Get the gun, kill kill kill.

Perry stared at them, waiting to feel the rush of violent desire.

But he didn’t feel anything.

He’d beaten them. Dew was right, he could do this.

“Where is the Jewell family?” Perry said, his voice growing a little stronger with each word. “Bobby Jewell, Candice Jewell, Chelsea Jewell.