Scott Sigler - Contagious

“The pustules form after death,” Margaret said. “The tongue must spread the disease while the host is still alive.”

“Ewww,” Dan said. “You’re thinking they lick you?”

She shrugged. “No way of knowing. We’ll have to see if the same sores develop in Officer Sanchez. If they do, we know we have a continuing vector, one host to the next. Marcus, assist Dan. Gitsh, keep mopping and wiping everything down. Clarence, are you suited up?”

“Yes ma’am,” she heard in her earpiece. “I’m in Trailer B right now, with Officer Sanchez.”

“How is he?”

“Conscious now, but still kind of out of it. Complaining of a fever and body aches. He doesn’t want to be strapped down, but he understands. I think as long as I’m here with him, he’ll be okay. I can do that unless you need me to do something else.”

“I don’t need anything from you,” Margaret said. “Just stay there and stay out of my way.”

She hadn’t forgiven him for Bernadette. She wasn’t going to. Clarence Otto was just like the rest of these heartless butchers.

Dew, Murray, even Perry. Their business was death, and Clarence was one of them. Margaret’s business was life.

And that’s what she would give to Officer Carmen Sanchez.

Perry did pull-ups on the branch of a fat oak tree in the Jewells’ front yard.

One after another, pull, lower, pull, lower. He didn’t cheat, either, didn’t let his body just drop—the let-downs took twice as long as the actual pull-ups. His breath crystalized in front of him each time he reached the top. Everyone kept bitching about the cold, but he loved it. He wasn’t far from where he’d grown up. Hell, he’d played against this town back in high school, the Cheboygan Chiefs against the Gaylord Blue Devils. This weather wasn’t cold, it was home.

Pull, lower.

He looked at the rope swing farther down the branch. Snow covered the little wooden seat. He wondered if Chelsea had sat on that.

Maybe her dad had pushed her.

Maybe she’d laughed.

Pull, lower.

He had to find her. He knew that, but at the same time he didn’t want to go anywhere near her. He’d felt her power, exponentially higher than that of the hatchlings that tried to tell him what to do. They were merely a nuisance, but she… she pulled at something deep in his soul.

He didn’t know why her commands felt different. They just did. If she grew more powerful, he really didn’t know if he could stand against her.

The sound of footsteps in the snow. He recognized the heavy-footed rhythm of a man with a limp.

“Dawsey,” Dew said. “I have something for you.”

“You missed Christmas,” Perry said. “Trying to make up for lost time?”

“Something like that. You know why I’m here.”

Pull, lower.

“I’m not fucking going in there, Dew, so forget it.”

“It’s contagious now.”

Perry stopped in mid-pull. He looked at Dew, then dropped to the ground. He stumbled a little from the pain in his knee, then stood tall and crossed his arms.

Dew nodded. “They found some John Doe in Detroit. Cop found his body. Cop touched him, then tested positive for cellulose. Things just got even worse. You have to go in there and talk to the hatchlings, maybe see if you can reach Chelsea again—Perry, you have to find the gate.”

“I… I can’t, Dew. I can’t face them.”

“You can,” Dew said. “I’m not much for emotional stuff, kid. But I got to tell you, I think you’re the toughest bastard I’ve ever met. The shit you’ve fought through would have broken guys like Baum and Milner, probably even guys like me. You have a warrior’s soul, Perry. You’ve got my respect. I will fight with you against this shit, and I will die before I let anything get you. Do you understand that?”

Dew’s eyes burned with intensity. Perry wasn’t much for emotional stuff, either, but Dew’s words kicked up a knot in the back of his throat. Bill Miller was the only guy who’d ever stood by him like that. So had Perry’s father, in his own fucked-up way. But Bill was dead. So was Daddy.

“I can see you’re about to sob like a little girl,” Dew said, “so let’s get this conversation out of borderline-gay land and move it back to practicality. You’re scared of what these things might make you do, but I know you can beat them. In fact, I’m willing to bet my life on that. So here’s your present.”

Dew reached into his shoulder holster, pulled out his .45 and handed it to Perry butt-first.

Perry looked at it. “You want me to shoot my present?”

“No, college boy, this is your present.”

Perry stared at the scratched weapon. It seemed to glow with well-oiled love. Dew had shot Perry in the shoulder with that gun. And in the knee.

Dew had carried that .45 in Vietnam, and every day since.

This wasn’t just a present. Perry was a worthless psycho, a failure. He didn’t deserve something this significant.

“I can’t take it,” Perry said. “You’ve had that for like thirty years.”

Dew nodded. “That’s long enough, I think. It’s yours now. It’s fired thousands of rounds without a problem. Guaranteed to work. So you take this gun. You go in there, and you sack up. You do what you have to do, no matter how scared you are. And if you can’t take them jabbering in your head, you’ve got my permission to send them back to whatever hell they come from.”

Perry reached out and took the gun. The grip felt cold, worn and smooth.

“Yeah, it’s loaded,” Dew said. He extended one finger and gently moved the barrel away from his chest. “So how about trying not to kill me by fucking accident, okay?”

Perry laughed. It sounded strange to him. He looked at the gun, then looked at Dew.

“Let me spell it out for you,” Dew said. “The Jewell family has been at large for at least thirty-six hours. They could be in any of two dozen states, even Canada. Maybe they already popped and their hatchlings are building a gate as we speak. We also have a second strain of infection that’s contagious. We’re out of time. We need to find the Jewells. We need to find that gate. So I’m only going to ask you one more time—do you want to go in that trailer and face these things that have fucked you right in the ass, or do you want to go hide your head for the rest of your life? My respect you’ve got, but my time? I don’t have any left. You either step up, right now, or you just leave and let me do what needs to be done.”

Dew was on his side, but Dew also had a job to do. Perry understood—he was either part of that job, or Dew wanted him gone.

Perry felt like maybe, just maybe, he actually did deserve some respect. He felt human again, and there was only one person responsible for that.

His friend, Dew Phillips.

“Whatever you need,” Perry said. “I’ve got your back, whatever it takes.

Let’s get this over with.”

Before they went in, Dew gave Perry a side holster for the .45. He also gave him four full magazines, which fit into little canvas pouches fixed to the holster’s straps. At seven rounds a magazine, that gave him a total of thirty-five rounds. Not that any amount of bullets could make him feel safe.

Perry walked into Trailer B, Dew right behind him. They both wore biohazard suits. Perry’s felt even more suffocating than before. This was it, his dramatic showdown with the monsters—he felt as if the trailer should have been poorly lit, half dark, maybe a bulb or two flickering sci-fi movie style, but everything was bright-white as fuck. The first thing he saw was the empty containment cell. Gitsh and Marcus must have hosed it down or something, as all of Bernadette’s blood was gone.