Contagious (30 page)

“What the fuck,” Perry said. “Was this Roznowski, like, a Special Forces Rambo guy, or what?”
“A plumber,” Dew said. “Roznowski is married, but the FBI can’t find his wife. That’s not a cause for alarm in itself, because this whole town just bugged out, but there are signs of a struggle at the Roznowski house, blood on the living-room carpet, so do your college-boy math.”
“Roznowski’s wife is the burned woman in the Jewell house?”
“Probably,” Dew said. “We’ll see if we they identify her, but that all adds up. Roznowski kills or hurts his wife, then brings her over to the Jewells’ house.”
“And the Becketts either go there or are brought there.”
“Nicole Beckett was murdered,” Dew said. “So maybe someone kills her and kidnaps Wallace and his son, but I’m thinking that maybe Wallace killed her, then went to the Jewell house on his own, just like Roznowski.”
“Went on his own,” Perry said. “Or maybe was called. Summoned.”
“Like the triangles put you and Fatty Patty together?”
Perry shrugged. “Maybe. So what do we do now?”
“We get some pictures of the Jewell family, for starters, and put out an APB on them. Hell, we’ll use the media again, say the Jewells are carrying the flesh-eating bacteria.”
Perry nodded. “Okay, that will work, but what about their cars?”
“All the cars registered to the Jewells burned up in their garage.”
“So they took someone else’s car?”
Dew nodded. “Probably. They had three snowmobiles registered, two of those are gone. If they stashed them in the woods somewhere, we won’t find them for weeks. So maybe they did take someone else’s car, but this whole town just evacuated—we have no way of knowing what cars should be here and what cars were taken by the evacuees. We can search neighboring houses for signs of a struggle, though, maybe get lucky and find a body. But if we don’t find one, there’s no way to connect them to a specific vehicle.
“Bottom line? The Jewells got out. All we can do now is circulate their pictures and hope they fuck up.”
THE TOWER OF POWER
Performance far beyond projections.
The Orbital measured the growing abilities of Chelsea Jewell. Not only was her communication ability developing faster than expected, it showed signs of immense power—eventually more powerful than even that of the Orbital.
Reasons for this remained unclear. The crawlers in her skull continued to divide and grow, adding length to the dense mesh that melded with her brain. The denser the mesh, the more processing power, and yet there was something more. Triangles could interface with a human brain, use it for their purposes, but Chelsea was human to begin with. No need for informational conversion or translation. Her thoughts were a native tongue. All she needed was a connection, which the crawlers provided.
How strong might she become? The Orbital did not know. What mattered was that her development was ahead of schedule. She would handle most of the communication, the organization, allowing the Orbital to focus on blocking the sonofabitch.
STRANGE THINGS ARE AFOOT . . .
Mio, Michigan, is a tiny town about thirty-five miles southeast of Gaylord. Mr. Jenkins’s Winnebago stopped at a gas station in Mio to fill up and to pick up a passenger by the name of Artie LaFrinere.
Artie had heard Chelsea’s call, but since he was outside the checkpoints, he drove to Mio, ditched the car, then walked to the gas station and waited. To be precise, he waited
near
the gas station, because Artie LaFrinere didn’t look so hot.
Four days ago Artie had gone tobogganing with his friends. He lost control of the toboggan, slid into the woods and plowed into a drift. Artie’s friends laughed at him as he wiped snow out from under his jacket and the crack of his ass. Unfortunately for Artie, that snowdrift had been a landing pad for a big gust full of seeds, which—of course—wound up all over his belly, his back and yes, the crack of his ass. Artie didn’t know it, but he was now a world record holder with his
thirteen
triangles. He coughed up blood every fifteen minutes or so. He didn’t talk much. Everyone understood. They welcomed him into the Winnebago and made him as comfortable as possible.
Artie was actually the second passenger: they’d picked up Harlan Gaines on Country Road 491 just outside of Lewiston. He and his four triangles were getting along just fine. With Mr. LaFrinere’s thirteen, plus Mr. Gaines’s four, Daddy’s five and Old Sam Collins’s three, Chelsea had twenty-nine dollies in the Winnebago.
Only four to go! Math was one of her favorite classes.
Chelsea sensed one more dolly daddy out there, a man named Danny Korves, trying to make his way to meet up with the Winnebago. She also sensed something even more exciting—free-moving dollies that had already hatched weeks ago, sneaking across the countryside, trying to reach her. She told them where to go, but since they could only travel at night and they had far to run, she doubted if they could make it in time. Everything would come down to Mr. Korves. Chelsea pushed out to him and told him that he had to reach her no matter what the cost.
She just might have enough dollies to build that gate, and that made her happy. Another thing that made her happy was that Mr. Jenkins had bought all the Nestlé Crunch Eskimo Pies the Circle-K gas station had in its little freezer. The Winnebago was still in the parking lot. Everyone sat in the back, enjoying that yummy ice cream on a stick.
Mommy and Daddy only got one bar each.
“We can’t stay here for long, Chelsea,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Pretty soon they’ll find out that the bodies in the house aren’t you and your parents.”
“What are you talking about?” Mommy said. “Won’t they burn up?”
Mr. Jenkins shook his head. “House fires don’t get hot enough for that. When they find out the bodies aren’t yours, the cops might start looking for you guys. You’ll be wanted for murder, probably. Depending on how bad they want you, they’ll run vehicle registrations for all your neighbors, figuring maybe you stole a car or took a hostage. Cops might be looking for this Winnebago before too long.”
“Is that for sure?” Mommy asked.
Mr. Jenkins shrugged. “You guys left three bodies in a burned-out house. Not like it’s an unpaid parking ticket.”
“How long do we have?” Mommy asked.
Mr. Jenkins shrugged again. “I couldn’t say. But I can say we should get the ’Bago off the road as soon as we can.” He rattled the map, his finger tracing their route. “We’re on Highway 33 right now. We can take that to Highway 75, which will get us there after dark.”
Chelsea crawled under the map and into Mr. Jenkin’s lap. They looked at it together. She pushed the route out with her mind, telling the remaining dollies and Mr. Korves to meet them along the way, or at the end.
“Mister Jenkins, if we go that way, will we see any more soldiers?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I hope not. They scare me. I know we had a good plan, honey, but I think we also got lucky.”
Chelsea nodded. “Me too. But if we do see them, we’ll just deal with them, so they
better not
try to stop us.”
STAREDOWN
This time Clarence Otto was by her side. He had a gun on a nylon cord hanging around his neck, because a holster really didn’t work with the biohazard suit.
When Margaret looked into the containment cell, she almost wished she had a gun herself.
Inside those clear walls, another woman was strapped to the autopsy trolley. Naked. She had a blue triangle on her left breast, one on her right forearm and one on her right hip.
Almost three months of work, all the insanity, all the violence, and this was the first time Margaret had seen a live triangle. After seeing so many dead ones, she had thought she knew what to expect—black eyes staring, blinking.
But she’d never thought about them staring at
her
. Their blinking made it so bizarre. It made them look . . . real. She wished Amos could have been here to see it. A live triangle meant they were that much closer to stopping this nightmare.
The woman was unconscious. She had enough meds in her to make sure she stayed that way. At least Margaret hoped. Betty should have stayed under, too, and look how well that had turned out.
Margaret looked at the touch-panel display mounted on the door. Bernadette Smith. Age twenty-eight. Mother of three. Well, not anymore. Now she was a mother of one and a widow—she’d killed her husband and slit the throats of her two daughters, one age five, one age three, before bundling the dead girls into the backseat of her Saab.
What would this woman be like after they removed the triangles? Perry still carried the guilt of murdering his best friend. How would this woman live with the knowledge she’d killed her husband, her own
children
?
And that was
if
they could remove the triangles at all. Margaret had seen the X-rays. The ones on the hip and the forearm would be tricky but doable. In each case the triangle’s barbed tail was wrapped around bone and arteries, but during surgery Margaret could repair a damaged artery.
The one on Bernadette’s chest . . . that was another matter.
The tail of that one was wrapped around Bernadette’s
heart
. The X-ray showed dozens of those wicked hooks, like sharp rose thorns, pressing up against it. One wrong pull and they’d cut multiple holes. If that happened, even with Bernadette on the operating table and Dr. Dan at her side, Margaret didn’t know if they could save her.
The heart monitor began to beat faster. Margaret punched buttons on the display, calling up the woman’s EKG. Pulse rate increasing.
“Shit,” Margaret said. “She’s waking up.”
“I thought you knocked her out for a couple of hours.” Otto said.
“I did. The triangles are countering the anesthesia somehow. Daniel?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Call Dew,” she said. “Tell him to bring Dawsey. The patient is waking up. We’re going to have to knock her out again and operate right away. If Dew wants to ask these things some questions, he’d better do it fast, because in thirty minutes I’m going to save this woman’s life and kill these little bastards in the process.”
DUSTIN GETS RELIGION
Dustin Climer woke up on a cot. His shoulder hurt. His head felt like it was going to explode. A fever washed through his body, and every nerve throbbed with shooting pains. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. The infirmary tent, and he was the only one there.
His training kicked in, and his hands found his weapon. The empty M4 carbine was leaning against a small metal cabinet of drawers at the side of his cot. Just having the M4 in his hands made Dustin relax a bit.
The tent’s soft plastic windows showed darkness outside. He’d been attacked in the morning, so he’d been out for what, eight hours? His clothes and shoes were folded up under a metal rack next to the bed. Something about his jacket bothered him. The shoulder patch . . .
Images flashed through his mind. A little girl. A blond, perfect,
angelic
little girl. Had he ever seen anything so gorgeous? He had. When he’d been out, he’d had visions of something black, something triangular.
The hatchlings.
Beautiful?
Yes,
beyond
beautiful. Perfection. Utterly divine.
Shame washed over him. He looked down at his jacket again, at the shoulder patch depicting a lightning bolt hitting an upside-down roach. And even worse, the three small black triangle patches sewn beneath it. One of those patches was just black. One had a glossy white
X
embroidered on it.
One had
two X
’s.
Oh, sweet God . . . what had he done? He’d
destroyed
them.
Three
of them.
Are you awake?
His head snapped up. A voice. A little girl’s voice. But he wasn’t hearing it—it was in his head. He put his hands on his face and lay back down on the bed. He was a sinner. He had destroyed perfection, and now he would have to pay.
Wake up, sleepyhead.
“I’m awake,” he said. “Your man tried to kill me, and now I understand why. I’m ready to pay the price.”
You don’t have to pay a price, silly. You didn’t know. And he wasn’t trying to kill you. He sacrificed himself so that you were a hero—you killed the man who killed the other soldiers. He only shot you so no one would question why you were tired and wanted to sleep. He died so that you could see my pretty dollies. Do you see now? Do you understand?
“Yes,” Dustin whispered. “Yes, I see them. I . . . I killed them.”
That’s okay. You didn’t know, so it wasn’t your fault.
“No, I didn’t know. I didn’t know how
beautiful
they were.”
You can make up for it.
“How?” He sat up again. “How can I? I’ll do anything!”
You need to make others see,
the voice said.
You are the protector. You need to make them all see, especially your leader.
“Colonel Ogden?”
Yes. You need to give him smoochies and let him see the pretty dollies.
More images flashed in Climer’s brain. Images of Chelsea watching her mother sleep. Images of Chelsea’s tongue.
You know what you need to do?
Dustin nodded. “Yes.”
Then hurry, but be careful. Don’t get caught. You are a protector now. You and the others must join us, because we want to open the gates to heaven.
The tent curtain opened, and two men came in. Doc Harper and Nurse Brad.
“Well, look who’s up,” Doc Harper said. “You jabbering to yourself in here?”
The men walked over to the cot.
Dustin shrugged. “I guess so, Doc.”
“Well I’m not surprised,” Doc Harper said. He slid a stool next to Dustin’s bed and sat. “You’re probably a better conversationalist than Brad here.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” Brad said. “Keep it up and I’ll stop letting you win at chess.”
Doc Harper picked up Dustin’s wrist and checked his watch. “Brad, you couldn’t beat me in chess if I played with my queen shoved up my rectum.” Doc released Dustin’s wrist, then pulled a penlight out of his breast pocket and started flicking it in Dustin’s eye.
“Just stare straight ahead, Private,” Doc Harper said. “Everything looks okay. How’s your head?”
“Hurts a bit,” Dustin said.
Harper nodded as he switched to the other eye.
“Describe the pain on a scale of one to ten,” Doc Harper said.
“Um, maybe a three.”
“Doesn’t sound like a major problem,” Doc Harper said. “Well, since you’re alert, the colonel wants to see you ASAP. I’ll let him know you’re ready to talk. Brad, grab some Tylenol packets. Four should do the trick.”