Scott Sigler - Contagious

Dan started nervously looking around the room. “Oh man, for real?”

Margaret reached back and tugged Dan’s sleeve. “Relax, he’s kidding.”

At least she hoped he was kidding.

“Run the pictures again,” she said.

Dan did.

“How often did they take these?”

“Every fifteen minutes,” Dan said. “Just like your instructions specify.”

Amos and Margaret exchanged a glance.

“What is it?” Clarence asked.

“This guy decomposed more rapidly than anyone we’ve encountered,” Amos said. “Twice as fast as before, maybe even faster.”

Clarence grimaced. “How about the others? We have names and addresses of everyone who was here at the time or came after?”

Dan nodded. “The troopers got everyone’s ID, license plates, registrations, the works.”

“Clarence,” Margaret said, “we need to have Murray get agents to every one of those people and run the swab test.”

“Yes ma’am.” Clarence moved to the third computer chair and grabbed the phone.

“But Margo,” Amos said, “it’s not contagious.”

“Not from host to host,” Margaret said. “But the McMillians were infected later, remember? Whatever the vector is, it might be persistent, lying on clothes or hair. And looking at these pictures, the disease has mutated, at least to some extent—as far as we know, now it could be contagious.”

Amos nodded. “Better safe than sorry, I suppose.”

“Everyone followed precise biohazard procedures,” Dan said. “We treated it like it was a strain of ebola that could do a stutter-step, fake you out, then jump in your pants if you weren’t careful. Mister Jewell’s remains are in the Trailer B body locker. Each piece of clothing is in a separate biohazard container, in case you want them.”

Otto put the phone on his shoulder and looked back at Amos. “Twenty bucks says Doctor Dan put each sock in a separate bag.”

“You’re on,” Amos said.

Dan smiled. “I even labeled the sock bags left and right. Sorry, Doctor Braun.”

“Call me Amos, you incredibly diligent and overwhelmingly anal-retentive young man.” Amos pulled the folded twenty from his pants pocket and handed it over to Otto without looking away from the screen.

The young doctor impressed Margaret. “For someone who has no idea what’s really going on, you did a hell of a job, Dan,” she said. “Looks like we’re ready to rock. Let me see pictures of the girl’s remains.”

Dan seemed surprised. “Didn’t you get the reports on your way in?”

Margaret shook her head. “No, radio silence the whole way. Why? What’s with the daughter’s corpse?”

“She’s not a corpse, she’s alive,” Dan said. “She’s in the containment chamber.”

A conversation was taking place.

One half of this conversation hovered forty miles above the Earth, straight up from the diseased oak tree in Chuy Rodriguez’s backyard.

The other half sat on the floor of Chelsea’s bedroom. On her left rested a pile of Barbies, Bratz and other dolls. On her right sat a similar but smaller pile. As she talked, she would pick up a doll from the pile on the left, take off all its clothes, hold the doll in her lap, then draw on it with a blue Sharpie.

She drew little triangles.

They were very pretty.

She finished with a doll, put it on the pile on the right, then grabbed another with her left hand.

“Chauncey, do you like ice cream Crunch bars?”

I have never had one. I could not eat them.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Then what do you eat?”

The Orbital directed some processing power to answering this. Being inanimate, it had endless patience for her questions, which was fortunate, because the questions indeed seemed endless. Most often it simply didn’t know the answer. It had accumulated a good bit of knowledge from the triangles’ interfacing with dozens of human hosts, but it still took time to make associations between language and fact.

I eat gravity.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Is it good?”

The Orbital worked to associate her use of the word good. Good meant many things to humans. It could mean a self-profession of capability. It could mean the socially acceptable course of action. It could mean a field goal. The Orbital searched to compare it with food consumption. Many stored host images came up, things like barbecued chicken, chocolate, cake, mashed potatoes. That is what she meant. Without the gravity processors, the Orbital would plummet to the Earth, so it applied the correct definition and answered.

Yes, it is very good.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Chauncey, who is your favorite Detroit Piston?”

I do not know.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Chauncey, are you God?”

The Orbital accessed images. An elderly human with a big white beard. A younger human with long hair and a short brown beard. Glowing heads. Love. Hatred. Divine intervention into human lives. Punishment. Wrath. Destruction. The Orbital cross-referenced these images against cataloged emotional responses, and determined that this was something it could potentially use to motivate hosts.

Why do you think I am God?

“You know, because you can talk in my head and stuff. People can’t do that, mostly.”

What do you think of God, Chelsea?

Chelsea sang. “ Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so . We go to church most Sundays, except during football season sometimes we don’t. I love God because God loves me.”

The Orbital called up more images. He examined the signals coming from Chelsea’s brain as she talked of God and Jesus. Yes, this was a powerful motivator.

Chelsea, if God told you to do something bad, would you do it?

Chelsea stopped drawing on her Barbie. She looked at the wall, just kind of staring out, tilting her head to the right as she thought.

“Daddy says sometimes God tests us, but God loves us and he wouldn’t ask us to do anything bad. So if God asked me to do something, then it couldn’t be bad, so I would do it.”

Yes.

“Yes what?”

Yes, I am God.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Okay. Can I still call you Chauncey?”

Yes.

Chelsea picked up her doll and started drawing blue triangles.

“Chauncey, do you like Snickers or Twix better?”

The Orbital continued to answer questions.

The door toher room opened slowly, and Mommy peeked her head inside.

“Chelsea, baby, how are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Chelsea said. She picked up another doll and took off its clothes.

“Chelsea, what are you doing in here?”

“Just drawing triangles on my dolls and talking to Chauncey.”

“Ohhh,” Mommy said. “Your special friend Chauncey?”

“Uh-huh,” Chelsea said. She drew a blue triangle on this doll’s forehead. Very pretty.

“What are you talking to him about?”

“Oh, you know,” Chelsea said. “Flowers, and my pink dress, and what’s the best cartoons, and basketball and gravity and ice cream and God and dollies and—”

“Okay, honey,” Mommy said, cutting Chelsea off. Mommy was laughing a little. Chelsea didn’t know what was so funny.

“You keep talking to Chauncey,” Mommy said. “Are you drawing on all your dolls? Is that a permanent marker? Don’t ruin them, honey.”

“I’m not ruining them, Mommy,” Chelsea said. She picked up a blond Barbie with blue triangles on her arms, legs and face. She held it up so Mommy could see. “They’re not ruined. I’m making them better. I’m making them pretty.”

“Okay, honey,” Mommy said. “You come get me if you need anything, okay?”