Contagious Page 92

Chelsea laughed. “Oh Daddy! You’re so funny.”

“No, honey, I’m . . . I’m not joking with you.”

The triangles bounced out farther, making interesting moving shadows on the far wall. Daddy’s face scrunched shut. He ground his teeth and let out a little noise.

“It will all be over soon, Daddy.”

His eyes opened again. They blinked so fast. He was breathing like he’d just come back from a run.

“Chelsea . . . you have power over these things. You can make them stop . . . you can . . . shut them down.”

One of Old Sam Collins’s hatchlings popped free. It arced through the air, lit up by the headlights. How pretty!

The m.u.f.fled screams got louder.

“Chelsea!” Daddy yelled. “I’m not . . . not kidding around. You stop them or you are in big trouble.” Tears leaked from his eyes. Snot bubbled from his nose. He started to kick. The triangles on his arm were coming out really far now.

“Daddy, G.o.d wants them to come out. Why would I stop them?”

“Because I’m going to die, you little b.i.t.c.h!” Daddy’s chest heaved. His eyes opened and shut, opened and shut. “Please, Chelsea! Oh my G.o.d it hurts! They’re screaming in my head. Please! Make it stop.”

One of Daddy’s hatchlings popped free. Daddy screamed really loud. He was just confused, that’s all. Now he got to go to heaven. Anyone who really believed in heaven would be happy to die. Why, the longer they lived, the more chances they might do something bad, then wind up in h.e.l.l. She didn’t understand why people prayed to G.o.d to stay alive. It just didn’t make any sense.

He drew a big breath to scream again, and Chelsea stuffed the T-shirt back into his mouth.

“I love you, Daddy,” she said. “Say h.e.l.lo to Jesus for me.”

Daddy’s screams stopped a few seconds later.

Chelsea walked around, picking up the little hatchlings and taking them inside the Winnebago. She wanted to make sure they were safe and warm.

THE DOLLY MAMA

Bernadette screamed so hard that flecks of blood flew out of her mouth. The containment-cell walls would have m.u.f.fled most of the sound, but Margaret had insisted that the room’s microphones pump the audio throughout the comm system.

If the men were going to let Bernadette Smith die, Margaret would make sure they heard every last second of it.

Dew was there. So was Clarence. Daniel Chapman was there as well, holding a handheld high-def camera. The two fixed cameras built into the containment cell would catch everything, but Dan had his in case they needed specific shots. Dew had asked Perry to come; Perry hadn’t shown.

Only an hour earlier, Perry had told Margaret what to expect. She wasn’t surprised he’d taken a pa.s.s.

“Nine thirty-seven A.M.,” Margaret said. “The triangles are beginning to move.”

She watched, horrified, as the triangles, now inch-high pyramids, started to bounce up and down under Bernadette’s skin.

“Sweet Jesus,” Dew said.

“Don’t you look away,” Margaret hissed.

Somehow, Bernadette found the energy to scream even louder.

The triangles bounced out farther, stretching her skin, tearing it. Little jets of blood shot out from the edges.

“Please help me! Make it stop! Make them stop shouting in my head!”

“Doctor Chapman,” Margaret said, “put that camera down and sedate that woman.”

“Do not do that, Chapman,” Dew said. “It could damage the triangles.”

Margaret turned to look at Dew. Her anguished soul longed for any excuse to look away from Bernadette, and this one fit the bill.

“Dew, you f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d. We’re torturing that woman!”

“I’m not going to take a chance your potions will kill the hatchlings,” Dew said. “This will be over soon.” Even as he spoke, he stared unflinching at the dying woman.

“Nine forty-one A.M.,” Dan said. “Patient is going into V-tach.”

Those words made Margaret snap around to look in the cell, made her instinctively take a step forward before she remembered that she wasn’t allowed to save the patient.

But Margaret could take away her pain.

Everyone in the trailer wore a hazmat suit—sealed, airtight, protected. Margaret moved to the containment cell’s door and started punching b.u.t.tons on the touch screen.

First the # sign, then 5, then 4, then 5, then—

Strong hands grabbed her wrists and pulled her away.

Clarence’s hands.

“Margaret, stop it!”

She struggled against him, but it was useless. He was too strong.

“Let me go, you monster!” How could she have been so wrong about him?

Dew leaned forward to look at the touch screen, then at Dan. “What was she doing?”

Dan looked away.

“Dan,” Dew said. “Answer me, now.”

“She was trying to do an emergency decontamination,” Dan said. “If she hits another five, every decontam nozzle in both trailers starts spraying. It would kill everything not wearing a hazmat suit, including the patient.”

Dew turned to look at Margaret. “You spell out the word kill to do that? Cute. Otto, don’t let her go. We have to finish this.”

Dew turned back to the horror show inside the containment cell. Margaret did the same—she didn’t want to watch, but she had to.

The triangles bounced out almost a foot before their tails and Bernadette’s ravaged skin pulled them back. The one on her chest jumped up and down like the heart of a cartoon boy who’s just seen the cartoon girl of his dreams.

The one on her hip tore free first, shooting across the tiny room to hit the wall. Barely an inch high, it wiggled on the floor, black tentacles writhing in a soupy combination of human blood and purple slime.

Her arm went next. The hatchling severed the artery as it launched free, spraying blood all over the clear containment-cell wall. The heartbeat monitor beeped out an erratic, panicked pace without rhythm.