Scott Sigler - Contagious

Betty leaned her right shoulder against the sink and pushed herself up with wobbling legs. Blood streaked her blue gown, the only clothing on an otherwise-naked body. The right side of her face was mostly cut away, black-and-white cheekbone blazing under red smears, bits of jellyish rot still clinging to what little skin remained.

Margaret just stared. She couldn’t move a muscle. She wanted to run, to scream, but she couldn’t even draw a breath.

Blood dripped from Betty’s skinless fingers. She still held the scalpel in her left hand, cradled it more than gripped it, trying to keep the stainless steel steady against exposed, blood-slick muscles.

Betty smiled. Only with the left half of her face, of course, because the muscles on the right side were mostly gone.

“You bish, ” she slurred. “Lesh shee how you like it.”

She shuffled forward, trying to keep her balance, bare feet leaving bloody streaks on the white floor.

The autopsy trolley was the only thing separating her from Margaret.

Betty reached down with her right hand and rolled it out of the way. She pulled her hand back, but her right pointer finger stayed behind, stuck to the trolley in a red and black mess of rotted meat and jutting bone.

Betty half-smiled again.

She stood only three feet away.

She took a small shuffle-step forward

Margaret still couldn’t will her muscles to move, not even a bit. Her breath returned in a sucking gasp, then shot out in a ragged scream that sounded impossibly loud inside her suit helmet.

But not so loud that she didn’t hear the gunshot.

The right side of Betty’s head, the undamaged side, exploded outward in a fist-size hole that sprayed blood, brains and bone on the back wall and into the sink. She dropped like a cloth puppet.

“Margaret!”

Clarence’s voice, muffled.

“Margaret, are you okay? Did she cut you?”

She turned to his voice. He wore his black biohazard suit. Gitsh and Marcus, also wearing suits, were right behind him. Clarence’s gloved hand held a pistol, still smoking. He knelt by her side, the gun pointed down and away from her.

Gitsh’s gloved right hand held a knife, much larger than Betty’s scalpel. He cut away at Amos’s suit, slicing it open at the chest and neck. Blood sloshed out of the cut suit as if someone had wrung out a soaked towel. It splattered on the floor and on Gitsh’s feet as he reached in to apply pressure. Marcus grabbed Amos’s legs.

“Clarence, get him on the table,” Marcus said. “His jugular is cut. Gitsh, keep pressure there. Margaret, get his helmet off!”

The men lifted Amos and set him on the already bloody trolley.

Margaret found herself standing, pulling off Amos’s helmet. Gitsh’s gloved hands stayed pressed down on Amos’s neck. Blood covered Amos’s face, matted his hair, pooled in his eyes.

His wide-open eyes.

She looked at Gitsh’s gloves. There was no blood oozing up from beneath the fingers.

Amos. Margaret’s thoughts snapped back into place.

“Do exactly what I say,” she ordered. “Remove your hands on a count of three, then be ready to reapply pressure as soon as I say go . One… two… three. ”

Gitsh pulled his hands back a few inches, where they hovered, ready to be put back into use.

No blood flowed.

The scalpel had punched in just to the right of Amos’s windpipe, then slid outward, slicing open the whole right side of his neck.

She couldn’t check his pulse without taking off her gloves, but she didn’t need to.

Amos Braun was dead.

Chelsea turned the knob ever so slowly. It didn’t make a sound. Neither did the door when she opened it. She crept into her parents’ room. Daddy was snoring. He always snored. Sometimes Mommy would go sleep on the couch, but not tonight. She must have been tired.

When Daddy snored, his mouth was always wide open. He looked silly. Mommy slept with her mouth closed.

Chelsea would have to fix that.

She tiptoed up to the bed, her pajama feet barely a whisper on the carpeting. Mommy wanted to make her go to the doctor? The doctor who poked her with stuff? The doctor who had the needles ? Well, now Chelsea was in charge. Chauncey had said so. And Mommy wasn’t going to make her do anything anymore.

Chelsea stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at Mommy. Mommy had such a pretty face.

Chelsea reached out with her finger and thumb and slowly, tenderly, pinched Mommy’s nose shut. Not enough to hurt her, just enough to stop the air from going in. There were a few seconds where nothing happened, then Mommy’s mouth opened and she took in a sharp breath. Chelsea let go of Mommy’s nose and dropped to the floor, lying flat against the edge of the bed. If Mommy woke up, she’d have to look over the edge to see Chelsea down there.

Chelsea waited, but Mommy didn’t seem to move. It was so hard not to giggle.

Chelsea slowly got to her knees, then to her feet, real quiet, like it was slow motion in the movies. Her head rose up until her eyes peeked over the edge of the bed.

Mommy’s mouth was still open.

Her eyes were still closed.

She was breathing real slow.

Mommy was asleep.

Make her obey.

Chelsea nodded. She moved her head forward slowly. Chelsea waited three more seconds to see if Mommy would wake up.

One -one-thousand… two -one-thousand… three -one-thousand… Ready or not, Mommy, here I come.

Chelsea put her lips over Mommy’s lips. Her tongue caressed Mommy’s tongue. There was a fizzing sound and a feeling like putting a bunch of Pop Rocks in your mouth. Chelsea fell to the floor again, this time rolling under the bed, trying so hard not to giggle.

“Eaungh,” Mommy said. Chelsea felt the bed move as Mommy awoke and sat up fast. She made a noise that was like coughing and spitting at the same time. The bed twitched with Mommy’s sharp movements.

“Unh!” Mommy said. “My mouf!”

“Hon?” Daddy said in a sleepy voice. “Hon-bun… you okay?”

“No, my mouf is on fiah!”

“Did you just eat something?”

“No, ah wah sleepin’!”

Even with a burning mouth, Mommy could still do that thing with her voice where she made it sound like Daddy was really stupid.

“Just relax. You must have had a bile burp or something. A little acid came up.”

“Unh!” Mommy said. “Un-huh.”

“Go rinse out with mouthwash,” Daddy said. “Take a Rolaids.”

Chelsea felt the bed move again. She kept herself very still. Mommy’s feet hit the floor, than she walked to the bathroom. The bathroom light came on for a second before the door shut behind her, leaving just an illuminated outline of the door.

Chelsea felt the bed thump again. Then, only two seconds later, Daddy snored. Wow, was he good at that! She bit down on her hand to choke back some major giggles. Daddy sounded so funny !

Chelsea Jewell slid out from under the bed and quietly ran to the bedroom door. She eased out into the hallway, carefully shutting the door behind her, and in seconds was back in her own bed.

“I did it, Chauncey!” she whispered. “I did it!”

She will not make you go to the doctor now. Tomorrow, you will be in charge.

“For real?”

You don’t have to speak out loud to talk to me. If you think really hard, I can hear you.

Chelsea squealed and hid her face in her pillow. Chauncey was special.

“For real ?”

Try it. Tell me your favorite color.

Chelsea controlled her giggles and tried to think hard, whatever that meant. She liked pink. But blue was real nice, too, and she had those light-blue socks with the brown stripes that Daddy bought her on his last trip, and then—