Scott Sigler - Contagious

“Dogs,” Burkle said. “One chased me yesterday; I slipped on some ice and hit a tree. Pathetic, right?”

“That’s unfortunate, sir.”

“Well anyway, I already got swabbed,” Burkle said. “I was the guy that found that body.”

Dustin nodded. “Who swabbed you?”

“The paramedics did. I was so freaked out I went to the hospital and insisted they do it again. I tell you what, you couldn’t pay me enough to do your job.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” Dustin said. “However, if you don’t mind, I have to swab everyone who goes through this checkpoint.”

The postman shrugged. “No problem, it’s painless. You need me to get out?”

“That’s okay, sir, please stay where you are.” He handed John back his license, which the man took. Dustin then offered the foil packet with his left hand. “Please open this, pull out the swab inside, run it inside your cheek and along your gum line, then hand it back to me stick-first.”

John reached for the foil packet. Just as he was about to grab it, his hand shot forward and gripped Dustin’s left wrist. Dustin yanked back reflexively, causing John to stumble out of the van. Dustin reached over with his right hand and grabbed John’s wrist. He was about to wrench it free and twist the arm down to put John on his face when he saw something in the postman’s other hand.

It took only a fraction of a second to realize it was a Taser, another fraction to feel fifty thousand volts hit his left hand and course through his body. He jerked convulsively, brain on hold, body doing its own thing. From the far side of the road, past the van, Dustin heard gunshots, the long reports of a hunting rifle echoing through the woods.

Dustin Climer found himself on the ground. He heard automatic weapons firing, the sharp cracks of an M4, the stuttering bark of the M249. Then the echo of more hunting rifles, this time from behind him, on the other side of the road.

The M249 stopped.

He tried to move, but could not. “We’re under fire, we’re under fire!” He heard Neil scream, then two more rifle shots.

The M4 fire stopped.

“Climer…” Neil’s voice. “Oh fuck, man, help me…”

Dustin shook his head, tried to get to his knees. He heard movement in the van, then feet hitting the road.

A gunshot—no echo this time, it was so close. Something hit the back of his left shoulder. His left arm gave out. He found himself facedown again.

He’d been shot. Holy shit, he’d been shot.

“No!” Neil said. “No, please!”

Another rifle shot. This one only ten feet away.

Neil said no more.

Snowmobile engines, getting closer. Another sound, a vehicle approaching, larger than a car or the mail truck.

Noise, pain, movement—it all overwhelmed his senses.

Dustin was flipped onto his back. Hands covered his eyes, hands held his arms, a whirlwind of confusion and pain. He started to kick, but a fist in his stomach ended the struggle, curling him up into a fetal position. Hands on his face, holding his jaw open, something wet in his mouth, burning in his mouth.

Hands pushing him away.

The bigger vehicle’s noise fading.

His body screaming for air, his shoulder just plain screaming .

A crackling sound, a whooshing sound.

Heat. Real heat, nearly scorching the side of his face.

A mini-eternity without oxygen, then a half-gasp that let in just a little, and finally a deep, ragged breath.

“I’m gonna kill you, soldier boy.”

Dustin sucked in air. He rolled to his hands and knees, then pulled his sidearm. His right hand filled with the knurled handle, the cold feeling of power, of protection.

“You better pull that trigger, soldier, or I’m gonna shoot ya like I shot your friends.”

Dustin pushed himself to one knee, right hand holding the pistol, left hand dangling uselessly, dripping blood onto the frozen dirt road.

To his right, flames billowed out of the postal van, fat orange tongues licking the air and spewing forth roiling black smoke.

In front of him, a man standing, holding a hunting rifle. It wasn’t the man who had been driving the van. He pointed the rifle at Dustin.

“Gonna kill you, soldier bo—”

Dustin’s first shot hit the man dead center in the chest. Two small feathers drifted away from his down coat. The man took one step back, then looked at his chest.

Past the man, far past, Dustin could see the rear end of a white and brown RV driving along the road.

The man looked up. He smiled and started to say something right before two more shots hit him in the chest. Still holding the hunting rifle in both hands, the man sagged and fell to his back.

Dustin struggled to stand. He felt weak, cold, but turned and looked for Neil. Neil lay on his back in a puddle of dark red. Someone had shot him in the face, blowing his brains all over the road. Looked like he’d also been hit in the leg, a fist-size blood spot above his right knee.

Dustin turned. He had to check on the others. He stepped forward, his right hand keeping the shaking gun pointed at the fallen man. The man’s eyes were wide open, a snarl locked on his face. Dead as fuck. Just like Neil. Tit for tat, you infected motherfucker.

Dustin stumbled again, barely catching himself as his foot slid on the snowy road. Oh man, getting shot fucking hurt .

He kept moving, checking his squadmates. Joel was slumped facedown over the M249. Not moving. The man with the hunting rifle probably took him out first. On the other side of the road, James was also down, helmet sitting upside down about three feet away from him.

The ground came up and smacked Dustin Climer right in the face. Oh man, oh man …he’d fallen. He forced his eyes open. So fucking cold . No sound but the wind. Then a soft humming, growing louder, growing closer. He knew that sound. A V-22. No, a couple of ’em. Climer put his gun hand on the ground and tried to push up, but his palm weakly slid across the snow-covered dirt road.

Finally he passed out.

If this kept up, they’d need another MargoMobile just to store the bodies.

The live triangle host was on the way. Dew and Ogden had decided to leave the MargoMobile at the Jewell house and transport the host instead of parking the trailers next to a highway on-ramp and off-ramp. Made sense, as the Jewell house was far more rural and somewhat isolated.

The host would go into the containment cell in Trailer B.

The cadaver cabinet was filling up as well. In there they already had the liquefied remains of Donald Jewell, the pitted black skeleton of Cheffie Jones, the burned corpse of Bobby Jewell and the corpse of his wife, Candice. Their daughter would join them as soon as Margaret finished the last of the preliminary autopsies.

Once again a biohazard-suited Margaret stood in Trailer A’s autopsy room, looking at a big body bag filled with a small body. Gitsh was with her. Clarence had suited up and checked each body for himself, making damn sure they were all dead before taking up his usual position in the computer room.

She needed to make this fast. Bernadette Smith would be here soon, and that would require all of Margaret’s attention. Also on the way was the body of Ryan Roznowski, the triangle host who had killed those soldiers at the roadblock. He was a low priority—she needed to clear her schedule for Bernadette.

“Gitsh, get Chelsea out of the bags and let’s get cracking. We need to do this fast. Marcus, you there?”

“Yes ma’am,” she heard Marcus’s voice say in her earpiece. “At the cadaver locker, making sure Bobby Jewell’s remains are properly stowed.”