Pandemic Page 108

The room waited. Blackmon took her time, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t show any sign of the stress overtaking her.

She turned to face Murray.

“Director Longworth, everything I’ve been told indicates the infected are mindless killers. Could they do more? Could the Converted actually take over a government?”

He wanted to say no because he didn’t want to believe any of this was happening, but his job was to tell the ugly truth.

“Based on what we’ve seen so far, they could not,” Murray said. “However, Doctor Montoya reported there were major changes in the way the disease behaved. I can’t rule out the possibility that the Chinese government is now under control of the Converted.”

Blackmon put both hands flat on the table. “Admiral, take us to DEFCON 3.”

FEET

A gunshot woke him up.

Cooper Mitch.e.l.l knew enough not to move, not to make a sound. All he did was open his eyes. The boiler room was even darker than when he’d entered. Another bulb had been broken.

How the f.u.c.k had he fallen asleep? Had he heard the shot, or dreamed it? It had been so faint, probably from somewhere out in the hall.

There were more noises now, noises he definitely wasn’t imagining, coming from inside the boiler room. Soft sounds of surprise, perhaps of pain.

Cooper didn’t move. Jeff (and his blanket-buddies) remained on top of him, still breathing, everyone covered by the ripped, tattered brown membrane. Cooper could only see a foot or so above the floor; his view consisted of the dead bald man and some of the far wall. The boiler blocked any view to his left.

Jeff’s body still felt hot.

Coop had to pee. Real bad.

The sound of shuffling feet. More groans of pain. A noise like a yawn, if that yawn came from a gravel-voice demon.

Something moved across Cooper’s limited field of vision: feet. Walking near the dead bald man. Feet that were too large for their loafers, so big the leather seams had split. What little light there was showed a glimpse of skin inside those splits … not white skin, not black or brown or tan, but … yellow … the color of bile mixed with sour milk.

I am so f.u.c.ked, so utterly f.u.c.ked.

And then, something spoke.

“WHERRRRRRE …?”

The deep, drawn-out word eased through the boiler room, an audible shadow of blackness. Something about the sound resonated deep in Cooper’s chest and stomach — he felt a fear so primitive it shut down everything, left room for only one thought: to move is to die. He recognized the word, but that voice … it wasn’t human.

A second voice answered.

“BASE … MENT?”

An even deeper tone, somehow more terrifying than the first.

Cooper’s bladder let go. He was barely aware of the wet heat that spread through his crotch down his right hip, along the part of his right thigh that pressed against the concrete floor.

“COME,” said the first voice. “FIIIND … SOMEONE.”

The yellow feet shuffled away. Cooper couldn’t see where.

He was shaking. His body trembled so bad it made Jeff’s body tremble as well.

The boiler room door opened, closed.

Cooper listened as the door’s echo faded to nothing.

A long-held breath slid out of his lungs. He tried to move, but he could not. He lay there, in his own urine, shaking so badly he could barely think.

What was happening? What had made those people yellow? Gutierrez’s PSAs about “T.E.A.M.S.” had never said anything about that.

Triangles, excessive anger and ma.s.sive swelling.

Cooper stuck his tongue out and felt it, checking for hard b.u.mps, then yanked his fingers away — those fingers had touched the membrane covering Jeff. He swallowed automatically, before he thought to stop himself from doing so.

Was some of that s.h.i.t now inside of him?

He had to find a place to wash up. He was in a boiler room … there had to be a sink down here somewhere. He could wash his hands, clean up the p.i.s.s. Cooper slowly slid out from under Jeff. He listened carefully for any sound coming from the hallway, for any hint of sliding yellow feet.

Nothing.

He crept to the edge of the boiler, peeked around the curved edge: he saw no one, just the closed, white doors that led out into the hall.

In the hall, the yellow people could be waiting …

Cooper quietly walked deeper into the boiler room’s shadows. His eyes continued to adjust. He froze when he saw another unmoving, membrane-covered man. This one was standing, wedged against a vertical pipe. So tall … six-six? Six-seven? Tall, and thick, like an NFL lineman, but also lumpy, just like the coc.o.o.ned Jeff.

Next to the encased man, Cooper saw a metal sink, the industrial kind.

What faint light there was reflected off something on the floor, something wet … water from the sink? A puddle, a thick puddle, running up to the shoes of the coc.o.o.ned man.

Shoes … four of them.

Cooper looked closer. Near the head, a flap of membrane hung down. It was brown, but only on the outside — the inside looked wet-black. Behind the torn membrane, something white.

Cooper’s eyes finally adjusted to the limited light. He was staring at a skull smeared with globs of rancid black. The white bone beneath the rotted flesh looked pitted and pockmarked, like someone had sprayed it with acid.

The membrane-covered man had a lump on his left side, below the chest. The lump, it was the shape of a person … a shriveled person, as tall as Cooper but thinner than a death-camp victim.

This can’t be happening … none of it …