Scott Sigler - Contagious

Dew threw up his hands. “You know what? Fuck this. I have to go contact Colonel Ogden. Making sure nothing happens to Margaret is your job, Otto. Good fucking luck.”

Dew got out of the truck, slamming the door behind him as hard as he could.

“This is bullshit,” Clarence said.

“I’m going to the back to get body bags,” Margaret said. “Amos, you come help me. Clarence, if you’re so worried about my safety, get in there and tell Perry to stay put. Feel free to threaten him, because that’s what you men do and it seems to work so well. But put on your hood and gloves before you go in!”

Margaret crossed in front of Amos to go out the sleeper cabin’s passenger-side door. Like Dew, she slammed it shut behind her.

Clarence sat in silence, shaking his head.

Amos unsuccessfully tried to choke back laughter.

“Something funny?” Clarence asked.

“ Put on your hood and gloves, ” Amos said. “If you weren’t so pissed already, I’d probably make fun of you.”

“Now is not the time, Amos.”

“I said I would make fun of you. I’m not actually making fun of you. Big difference. Man, I can only imagine what that woman is like in the sack.”

“In the bedroom I’m in charge,” Otto said sullenly. “Unfortunately, that seems to be the only place I’m in charge.”

“You’re whipped.”

“I don’t see you backing her down.”

“Everyone knows I’m whipped,” Amos said. “My wife, my daughters, Margaret—not exactly a news flash. But you, Mister Alpha Male? You go ahead and carry the illusion that someday you’ll be able to change the situation.”

“Fuck you, midget. And help me with these gloves.”

Amos held the gloves so Otto could slide his hands inside. Amos made sure the connecting rings snapped home, then ran sticky tape around them.

“Hey,” Amos said. “Twenty bucks says Dawsey kills you.”

“You’re on.”

“I’ll take it out of your locker if he does,” Amos said. “Wouldn’t look right me rifling through the pockets of a corpse.”

“Whatever. If you win, I guess I won’t really be worried about appearances.”

Both men fitted slim earpiece wires around their right ears. Each wire frame contained a small speaker that fit into the ear canal, a microphone and a transmitter that routed into the MargoMobile’s communication center. The sets were on a predefined frequency, same as Dew and the other agents used. They let the scientific team communicate with one another as well as monitor any communication between Dew and his team.

Otto pulled on his black helmet. Amos helped him seal it, then ran a line of sticky tape around the metal collar. Otto held out his right hand, exposing the suit controls mounted in the inner wrist. Amos simply pressed the “on” button, and the compressor mounted on Otto’s belt started up with a nearly silent hum. His suit’s heavy PVC fabric billowed up slightly, the result of higher pressure inside. Should the suit suffer a tear, air would flow outward, theoretically keeping any contagions or toxins away from his skin until the suit could be repaired and decontaminated.

“I’m off to make twenty bucks,” Clarence said.

“Been nice knowing ya,” Amos said. “See you on the other side.”

Otto nodded, then opened the wide sleeper-compartment door and hopped down. The icy rain bounced off his black suit as he walked toward the house.

Perry finished his fifth beer. A blessed buzz started to work its way through his brain. He stood up and walked to the fridge. The door wouldn’t open all the way. It was partially blocked by the body of the man who had shit all over himself. Perry put a foot on the man’s hip and slid him to the right.

Inside the fridge he found another six-pack of Budwesier. Okay, so maybe the dead guy hadn’t had any discipline, but at least he hadn’t been one of those microbrew pussies.

Holding the fresh six-pack, Perry stepped over the body and sat back down behind the table just as another black-suited man came into the kitchen. This one carried only a pistol. Through the suit’s clear visor, Perry saw the oh-so-serious face of Agent Otto.

“Hey, Clarence,” he said. “You look like a fat ninja.”

“Thanks,” Otto said. “That means so much coming from a source of wisdom like you.”

Perry opened the bottle and drank it in one pull. Six down. Five more and he’d be nice and hammered. Everyone has to have goals in life, right?

Otto slowly looked around the room, surveying the damage. “Were you drunk when you killed these people?”

“They’re not people,” Perry said. “And no, I was not drunk, but I mean to correct that situation.” He opened the second bottle and drained half of it before putting it down.

“I guess so,” Otto said. “Listen, man, you know you scare the crap out of me, right?”

Perry shrugged. That was the way of things. Didn’t matter what he did, what he said, they looked at him like he was a monster. So why not live up to the billing?

“Margaret is coming in here,” Otto said.

“Sure she is,” Perry said. “Look at all the new toys she has to play with. See this one?” He nudged the dead little boy with his foot. “I call him Slinky.”

“Save me your psycho jokes,” Otto said. “Just understand that when she’s in this room, you make any sudden moves and I’ll put you down.”

“Oh, come on, Clarence! A gun? Don’t be that guy! How about you and I settle this the old-fashioned way?”

“Forget it.”

“What’s the matter, Clarence? Massa Dew say you can’t play with the white kids?”

Behind the helmet visor, he saw Clarence’s eyes narrow.

“Go ahead, boy, ” Perry said. “Take a swing. I won’t tell on you.”

Perry hoped he would do it. Otto was big enough to count as a challenge. Not much of a challenge, but something. It would feel good to smash in his face.

He had nothing against Otto, really. Except that Otto was fucking Dr. Montoya, which meant he was getting laid, which was something Perry figured he’d never do again. If that wasn’t a good enough reason to hand out a beat-down, he didn’t know what was.

“I’ll pass,” Otto said. “You can save all that macho bullshit. Only one way you and I are going to dance, and that’s if a bullet takes the lead.”

“Oh, that’s horrible,” Perry said. “Did you write that shit yourself?”

Perry thought he saw Otto smile, just a little bit, but then the stone face slipped back into place.

Margaret came into the room carrying a double armful of green bags. She dropped them in a pile. In her black suit, she looked identical to Otto except that she was a foot shorter. Standing side by side, they looked like the adult and child versions of an alien from a bad sci-fi flick.

“Hey, Otto, your other massa is here,” Perry said. “Wake up, white people. The Jew is using the black as muscle.”

“I’m not Jewish, Perry, I’m Hispanic,” Margaret said. “And I’ve got The Blues Brothers on DVD, seen it about fifty times, so I know that line. Next are you going to tell me you hate Illinois Nazis?”

Good God. She knew The Blues Brothers ?

“I also know you’re not racist,” she said. “So stop trying to push everyone’s buttons. You’re not good at it.”

Perry wondered if Clarence Otto really had any idea just how cool this chick was. He hated everyone in this fucked-up project, but he had to admit he hated Margaret a little less than the others. He tilted a fresh beer toward her.

“You want a beer, chica ? I tried to offer your boy Toby one, but he told me the only good whitey was a dead whitey.”