Pandemic Page 77

If she drowned in her dream, would she ever wake up again?

Gloved fingers searched for the clasps, darted back and forth, hunting desperately … but there were no clasps.

Sweat rose past her belly b.u.t.ton.

“Hey, Margo.”

She stopped moving, looked out the curved visor to the huge man who had suddenly appeared before her. Dirty-blond hair hung in front of his electric-blue eyes, even down past that winning smile.

“Hey,” she said.

The sweat tickled the base of her throat.

“I got Chelsea,” he said. His smile faded. “The voices have finally stopped, but … I don’t think I’m doing so good. I’ve got those things inside of me.”

She started to tell him that she didn’t care, that she really didn’t give a f.u.c.k about his G.o.dd.a.m.n problems, but when she opened her mouth to speak, it filled with the hot, salty taste of her own sweat.

The level rose to her nose.

Perry reached out a hand. A triangle point pushed the skin of his palm into a pyramid shape, its blue color dulled by his nearly translucent flesh.

The sweat rose above her eyes, stung them, turned Perry into a shimmering vision.

Margaret heard a squelching sound, felt something hit her visor. She couldn’t see Perry — all she saw was a wiggling, bluish-black creature: an inch-high pyramid with tentacle-legs twice as long as the body, plastered to her visor like a still-twitching bug splattered on a windshield.

The legs squirmed, spreading Perry’s blood across the clear surface.

Margaret’s lungs screamed at her: breathe, you have to breathe!

The hatchling’s tentacles wrapped around the back of her helmet. The triangular bottom of the pyramid body had little teeth that sank into the visor’s plastic, bit and pulled and ripped.

It tore open a hole. The sweat started to lower. She felt it drop to her forehead, then her eyes. She blinked away the sting, holding on desperately, waiting for it to drop below her nose.

When it did, Margaret drew in a gasping breath.

The hatchling scurried down her suit. It hit the ground and ran for the sagging buildings.

Perry’s smile returned.

“It hurts,” he said. “Bad. I think they’re moving to the brain. Margaret, I don’t want you to lose control.”

“You won’t,” she said, the words familiar and automatic even though so much of the dream had changed. “They won’t have time.”

Perry’s smile widened. “I didn’t say my brain.” He put his hands on her shoulders, gave them a brotherly squeeze. “I said yours.”

She heard a banging. Not the whistle of a bomb, not this time, but rather a banging as if someone had a gong and was hammering the whole city at once, bang-bang-bang.

“Somebody knockin’ at the door,” Perry said. “Do me a favor, open the door, and let ’em in.”

Bang-bang-bang!

Margaret sat up, aching muscles voicing their complaint before they started shivering, shaking so bad that her back hurt and her teeth clacked. Her head throbbed. She needed water. Her throat felt so dry, so sore.

Her dream was always the same — why had it changed?

The sweat filling her suit … just like the icy lake water had done when she fell out of the Brashear. Her brain had brought the real-life trauma into the dream. And what Perry had said, that was just a reflection of her own fear of infection.

That was why.

That had to be why.

Her dream suddenly came to life again as the same bang-bang-bang sound made her jump.

No, not bang-bang-bang … a knock-knock-knock.

“Doctor Montoya?”

Klimas, calling through the door.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Come in.”

The door opened. He leaned in, beady eyes staring, smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Ah, you’re dressed,” he said. “That saves some awkwardness. It’s time for your third test.”

She realized there was a plastic-wrapped sandwich on a plate, sitting on a small table that folded down from the wall. She didn’t remember anyone bringing it in.

“My … third?” The words cut at her dry throat. “I didn’t take a second.”

Klimas nodded. “Yes, you did. Pa.s.sed with flying colors. You don’t remember?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Well, you were pretty groggy,” Klimas said. He offered her the all-too-familiar white box. “Please put this to good use, then Doctor Feely said you need to see something.”

A white box. A foil envelope inside. Inside of that, Tim Feely’s little p.r.i.c.k.

I didn’t say my brain … I said yours.

The dream, so different. She shook her head, chasing away the thought so she could focus on the present.

“How long was I out this time?”

“Six hours or so,” Klimas said. “Feely said you could skip a test. Not like you’re going anywhere, right?”

Six hours … she’d slept for sixteen before … that made twenty-four hours or so since the battle on the Brashear …

Could infection symptoms start in twenty-four hours?

Margaret blinked. She was being ridiculous. The battle, the abuse to her body, a dip in the icy waters of Lake Michigan, her wounds — she was just rundown, out of shape. Maybe she’d caught a basic, run-of-the-mill common cold.

There was one way to find out.

She reached out and took the box. With practiced motions, she swabbed the base of her thumb and poked herself with the tester before she had time to think about what she was doing.