Scott Sigler: Contagious

“What about the FBI?” Vanessa asked. “The CIA has no domestic police authority. You shouldn’t be doing any of this.”

“The FBI does not have detailed knowledge,” Murray said. “Once again, we were acting on the direct orders of President Hutchins.”

Vanessa stared at Murray and shook her head. John knew she had her sights firmly set on the man: she was going dinosaur hunting. It would be up to Murray to fend off her attacks and to prove his worth.

But how much more did the man need to prove? A behavior-altering human parasite, at least two military operations on U. S. soil that resulted in casualties, what might very well be alien machines… and no one knew. The media didn’t even have an inkling. John now understood why his predecessor raved about Murray Longworth.

“We still don’t really know what we’re up against,” Murray said. “We haven’t been able to capture one of those hatchlings alive. The ones we kill disintegrate very quickly, within a few hours. Even the gate material breaks down almost immediately, so that hasn’t given us any information.”

“How do we know that these things are truly hostile?” Donald said. Vanessa and Tom “They attacked our troops, I understand, but could that be a defensive action, to protect this construct long enough for them to… I can’t believe I’m even saying this out loud… long enough for them to make contact?”

“A race that technologically advanced could initiate at least a rudimentary communication,” Murray said. “The only logical reason they haven’t is that they don’t want to. They build only in remote areas. Why not build whatever it is out in the open? Because if they did that, our military could surround them and prepare for whatever came through. That’s not a problem unless you’re bringing in your own military units. This seclusion indicates they want to insert assets, assets that could be vulnerable during the insertion process.”

“A beachhead,” Donald said. “They want to control a landing zone.”

Murray nodded. “That’s our assessment, Mister Secretary. And finally, look at the behavior of the infected victims. These parasites represent a level of bioengineering we can’t even fathom. Could something capable of utilizing a human host like that accidentally create behavior that makes the host avoid contact with health-care professionals? Or kill people very close to them, people who might see the welts and call for help?”

Murray stopped talking. He stood motionless, his hands by his sides. Donald, Vanessa and Tom all turned to look at John. He took a long sip of water. What the fuck was he going to do with Hutchins’s little going-away present?

He set the water down.

“Donald,” John said. “In your position as secretary of defense, do you think these things are hostile?”

Donald nodded. “Based on what we’ve been told, yes.”

He looked at Vanessa. “And you?”

She looked as if it pained her to say the words. “I also would agree, but based on what we’ve been told, Mister President, we have to go public with this.”

“Are you fucking nuts ?” Murray said. He looked at everyone in the room, then stood a little straighter. “My apologies for my outburst, but this is a bad time to go public. Doctor Montoya is developing a test that will detect the disease. We have Phillips’s team in place, and we’re actively seeking additional hosts.”

“Trust the people,” Vanessa said. “We need to tackle this as a nation.”

John leaned back in his chair. Nothing like a major, possibly historical decision to kick off his presidency in style.

“Murray,” John said. “How long until the test is ready?”

“We can’t say for sure,” Murray said. “At least a week, but we won’t know if it works until we find more hosts.”

Opening up this can of worms to the public… now might not be the time. Murray Longworth had kept things secret for five administrations; John imagined he could do the same for a sixth.

“Two weeks,” John said. “I want two weeks to evaluate the situation. Let’s get that test working and move from there. And, Murray, keep this thing quiet.”

Murray nodded. He looked pleased, as if somehow he’d known all along that this was how the meeting would turn out. John couldn’t miss his small smile.

John could also see that Vanessa didn’t miss it, either.

They were going to get him.

Tad wasn’t going to let that happen, even if he had to kill himself.

The window slid open.

Curtains blew back, thrown by the same nighttime wind that splashed cold rain and bits of ice into the face of Thadeus “Tad” McMillian Jr.

He hoped his little brother wouldn’t wake up. When Sam woke up, he cried loud. Real, real loud. His cries always brought Mom and Dad.

Mom and Dad, who wanted to get Tad.

Tad got down off of his toy box. He picked up the box and lugged it over to his brother’s crib. Carrying it hurt the blisters on his hands, but he had to stand on the toy box to reach inside the crib, just like he needed it to reach the sliding window’s latch. Tad set the box down next to the crib, stood on top and reached in to pull the blankets up tight under the baby’s chin. That would keep Sam warm. Tad gently brushed his brother’s hair, then leaned in and kissed the baby on the forehead.

“Good-bye,” Tad whispered.

He got down and lugged the box to the window one last time.

“Good luck, Sam,” Tad said quietly, looking back at his brother. “I really hope you don’t wind up like Sara.”

Tad held on to the window frame as he put his feet up on the metal sash. Freezing rain instantly soaked his shirt. Bits of wet ice stung his face. A gust of wind almost blew him back, but he adjusted his balance and held on.

It was better this way. Anything was better than staying here.

Tad McMillian jumped into the night.

Not too far outside of South Bloomingville, Ohio, in the hushed darkness of winter woods, Colonel Charlie Ogden stood tall behind a loose line of nine men. The men were his personal squad, Fifth Platoon, X-Ray Company, Domestic Reaction Battalion. X-Ray Company was the unit’s official name, but in the usual testosterone-stoked spirit of the military the men called themselves something else.

They called themselves the Exterminators.

The boys had even come up with unit insignia: a lightning bolt hitting an upside-down cockroach. They wore it on the right shoulder. Under it they added small black triangle patches for each combat mission, and decorated the triangle with a white X for each monster killed.

Ogden’s sleeve had two black triangles. The first triangle bore two white X ’s. That was because Colonel Charlie Ogden didn’t sit in a Hummer miles from the action. He led from the front. And when you led from the front, sometimes you had to fight.

But that didn’t mean he was stupid—his personal squad was the best of the Exterminators, men who could chew rusty Buicks and shit stainless-steel nails. The fifth platoon of any company usually consisted of support staff, drivers, armorers—mostly noncombat troops—but since Ogden could do just about whatever he wanted, he’d given himself a personal guard that could jump into any fight at any time.

On Ogden’s left stood Corporal Jeff Cope, his ten-pounds-too-heavy communications man. On his right, the swarthy Sergeant Major Lucas Mazagatti, his top NCO. Behind him, observing, stood the overly tanned Captain David Lodge, commander of Whiskey Company, and Lodge’s massive, intense sergeant major, Devon “Nails” Nealson.