Scott Sigler - Contagious

The kind that would put you in the history books forever.

The building was perfect.

Rusted, once-white metal beams held up a peaked ceiling way above. There were holes in that ceiling. Through them Chelsea could see little patches of early-morning sky, tiny stars still flickering their fading light. She could see the heavens. It was such a long building—her Mickey Mouse watch said it took her thirty seconds to run from one end of the trash-strewn floor to the other. On one side of the building, a second deck and even a third deck looked out over a long, open, central area. There was lots of graffiti. Some naughty words, too. If anyone else came in to paint bad words, Chelsea would have Mr. Jenkins take care of them.

They’d found a big entrance in the back. Mr. Jenkins called it a loading dock. Up above was a metal roll-up door, stuck three-quarters of the way open. Mr. Jenkins said it worked exactly like a roll of paper towels, that people used to just pull it down, but it was rusty and broken. Grafitti-covered plywood blocked the rest of the entrance. Mr. Jenkins had to drive the Winnebago right into the plywood, and the whole wall fell in like one of those drawbridges like in the princess stories. He drove over it, cracking the wood in many places, but then he and Daddy and Old Sam Collins and Mr. Korves were able to put it back up again.

The Winnebago was inside, safely out of sight. Which was good, because right about the time they put that plywood back, Chelsea sensed that the dollies were almost ready to come out and play.

Chelsea made Mr. Jenkins put all the dolly daddies side by side in front of the Winnebago. The rising sun was already spreading a little light into the building through the small holes in the roof, but she wanted the daddies in the headlights so she could see everything. Their heads were closest to the Winnebago, all their tootsies pointed away. Kind of looked like nap time at summer camp.

Mr. Jenkins tied them up.

He tied up Daddy, Mr. LaFrinere, Mr. Gaines, Old Sam Collins and Danny Korves.

Mommy took one of Mr. Jenkins’s knives and cut off their clothes.

They all shivered a lot. A little bit of snow had blown into the building, fine white powder drifted up against fallen boards and broken bricks. Every now and then, a gust of wind found a way through the walls and the boarded-up windows, swirling the powder in slow arcs.

Then the dolly daddies all started screaming. That was annoying. Chelsea told Mommy to stuff their mouths with some of the cut-up clothing. That helped.

Chelsea sat down and watched.

They were all tied up, but they still kicked and thrashed around. Everyone except Daddy. Daddy was looking at Chelsea. His eyes seemed very sad. He was trying to say something. He wasn’t screaming like the others, even though the dollies on his arm were starting to bounce in and out.

Chelsea stood and walked over to him. She pulled the piece of T-shirt out of his mouth.

“Chelsea, honey,” Daddy said. It was hard to understand his words because he was breathing so hard. “Please, baby girl, make… make them stop.”

Chelsea laughed. “Oh Daddy ! You’re so funny.”

“No, honey, I’m… I’m not joking with you.”

The triangles bounced out farther, making interesting moving shadows on the far wall. Daddy’s face scrunched shut. He ground his teeth and let out a little noise.

“It will all be over soon, Daddy.”

His eyes opened again. They blinked so fast . He was breathing like he’d just come back from a run.

“Chelsea… you have power over these things. You can make them stop… you can… shut them down.”

One of Old Sam Collins’s hatchlings popped free. It arced through the air, lit up by the headlights. How pretty !

The muffled screams got louder.

“Chelsea!” Daddy yelled. “I’m not… not kidding around. You stop them or you are in big trouble. ” Tears leaked from his eyes. Snot bubbled from his nose. He started to kick. The triangles on his arm were coming out really far now.

“Daddy, God wants them to come out. Why would I stop them?”

“Because I’m going to die, you little bitch!” Daddy’s chest heaved. His eyes opened and shut, opened and shut. “Please, Chelsea! Oh my God it hurts ! They’re screaming in my head. Please ! Make it stop. ”

One of Daddy’s hatchlings popped free. Daddy screamed really loud. He was just confused, that’s all. Now he got to go to heaven. Anyone who really believed in heaven would be happy to die. Why, the longer they lived, the more chances they might do something bad, then wind up in hell. She didn’t understand why people prayed to God to stay alive. It just didn’t make any sense.

He drew a big breath to scream again, and Chelsea stuffed the T-shirt back into his mouth.

“I love you, Daddy,” she said. “Say hello to Jesus for me.”

Daddy’s screams stopped a few seconds later.

Chelsea walked around, picking up the little hatchlings and taking them inside the Winnebago. She wanted to make sure they were safe and warm.

Bernadette screamed so hard that flecks of blood flew out of her mouth. The containment-cell walls would have muffled most of the sound, but Margaret had insisted that the room’s microphones pump the audio throughout the comm system.

If the men were going to let Bernadette Smith die, Margaret would make sure they heard every last second of it.

Dew was there. So was Clarence. Daniel Chapman was there as well, holding a handheld high-def camera. The two fixed cameras built into the containment cell would catch everything, but Dan had his in case they needed specific shots. Dew had asked Perry to come; Perry hadn’t shown.

Only an hour earlier, Perry had told Margaret what to expect. She wasn’t surprised he’d taken a pass.

“Nine thirty-seven A.M.,” Margaret said. “The triangles are beginning to move.”

She watched, horrified, as the triangles, now inch-high pyramids, started to bounce up and down under Bernadette’s skin.

“Sweet Jesus,” Dew said.

“Don’t you look away,” Margaret hissed.

Somehow, Bernadette found the energy to scream even louder.

The triangles bounced out farther, stretching her skin, tearing it. Little jets of blood shot out from the edges.

“Please help me ! Make it stop! Make them stop shouting in my head !”

“Doctor Chapman,” Margaret said, “put that camera down and sedate that woman.”

“Do not do that, Chapman,” Dew said. “It could damage the triangles.”

Margaret turned to look at Dew. Her anguished soul longed for any excuse to look away from Bernadette, and this one fit the bill.

“Dew, you fucking bastard . We’re torturing that woman!”

“I’m not going to take a chance your potions will kill the hatchlings,” Dew said. “This will be over soon.” Even as he spoke, he stared unflinching at the dying woman.

“Nine forty-one A.M.,” Dan said. “Patient is going into V-tach.”

Those words made Margaret snap around to look in the cell, made her instinctively take a step forward before she remembered that she wasn’t allowed to save the patient.

But Margaret could take away her pain.

Everyone in the trailer wore a hazmat suit—sealed, airtight, protected. Margaret moved to the containment cell’s door and started punching buttons on the touch screen.

First the # sign, then 5, then 4, then 5, then—

Strong hands grabbed her wrists and pulled her away.

Clarence’s hands.

“Margaret, stop it!”