Scott Sigler - Contagious

Dew thought that over. It would work, it had before, but how long would it take?

“I don’t know if we have that much time,” he said. “Now that the jamming is gone, now that you feel something, you can focus on the hatchlings. Maybe we’ll find out exactly where this thing is.”

Perry thought for a second, then nodded. “It’s worth a shot.”

“So will you go in there and talk to them again?”

Perry took a deep breath, then let it out long and slow. “I don’t want to. She’s so strong, Dew. She might be stronger coming through the hatchlings, I really don’t know.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Dew said. “Will you or will you not go talk to them again? I’ll be right there with you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Perry said.

Dew smiled. “We’ll do it just like the shooting range, okay? I’ll have a gun at your back. You get silly, I’ll put you out of your misery.”

Perry chewed his lip for a second. “Okay. I’ll do it. But Dew, you better not be lying about shooting me in the back. If I have to die, I have to die, but… I couldn’t handle it if I hurt you.”

Hard to believe this was the same kid who had butchered a family only eight days ago. But people couldn’t change that much in that short of a time. This version of Perry had always been there, waiting for a reason to come out.

Pride swelled in Dew’s chest—once again Perry Dawsey was going to stand face-to-face with his nightmare.

Chelsea Jewell sat at the Winnebago’s back end, in the couch that faced the front. Her small body made the couch look like a giant throne. She had a little blood in her hair. A hatchling sat on her lap. She’d named it Fluffy. Chelsea slowly petted Fluffy, feeling the nice texture of his stiff, triangular body. Fluffy’s eyes stayed mostly closed, and when they opened, they opened only a little bit.

Chelsea wanted to stay calm, but General Ogden was making her so angry.

“Chelsea,” the general said, “we should just leave him alone.”

She said nothing. He stood there, waiting for her to speak. The plastic on the Winnebago’s floor was torn in places, kicked aside in others. Covered with tacky blood, it still crinkled under General Ogden’s feet. Little bloody tentacle tracks lined the walls and the burnt-orange fabric on the seats and couches.

I want the boogeyman dead.

“Can’t you block him? Like Chauncey did?”

I’m trying, but it’s hard. I don’t know how yet. He could come for me before I figure it out.

“The gate will be done in about three hours,” he said. “We don’t have to show our hand. Even with the rest of the men driving down from Gaylord, we have too few soldiers for a real fight.”

She just stared at him. What did he know, anyway? He was just the general. Chelsea was in charge. If she said they had enough soldiers, they had enough soldiers, and that was that.

What about the other soldiers back home? The ones you left to deal with Whiskey Company?

“That’s just eighteen men, Chelsea,” Ogden said. “They have to go up against a hundred twenty men and do enough damage to take Whiskey Company out of the picture.”

Well, if you have eighteen, then—

A voice called from outside the Winnebago, stopping Chelsea in midsentence.

The strange, deep new voice of Mommy.

“Chelsea! May I please talk to you?”

Mommy used her mouth, not her thoughts, which meant she was upset, confused.

Chelsea sighed. She would have to get up and walk outside. Mommy was already having trouble fitting through the Winnebago’s door. Chelsea lifted Fluffy and set him down on the couch.

“You stay, Fluffy. Stay!”

She didn’t have to speak out loud to Fluffy, but it was more fun. That’s how you talked to puppies, in the special voice so they knew you loved them.

Come with me, General.

Chelsea walked out of the Winnebago’s side door and into the building’s cold winter air. Ogden followed her. They both looked at Mommy.

Mommy seemed sad.

“Hello, Mommy.”

“Chelsea, honey,” Mommy said. “Something’s wrong. Wrong with me. Maybe with my crawlers?”

Chelsea shook her head. “No, Mommy. Nothing is wrong.”

Mommy started to cry a little. She was such a baby.

“But… look at me,” she said. “It hurts. I’m not pretty anymore. It hurts so bad.”

“Pain brings you closer to God, Mommy. Don’t you want to be closer to me?”

Mommy nodded. “Of course, but baby, just look at Mommy for a second. If this keeps going, Mommy is going to… to…”

“You’ll serve God, Mommy,” Chelsea said. “You’ll see, it will be so cool. Bye-bye now, Mommy. Bye-bye.”

Mommy turned, slowly, and walked away.

Chelsea turned to stare up at General Ogden. “You don’t know anything,” she said. “You’re just a general. I’m the boss of you. I want you to kill the boogeyman. I want it!”

“But Chelsea… most of our men are already on their way here.”

Then take some of the eighteen you left back home and send them to kill the boogeyman. And tell them to rescue my hatchlings, too—we can’t make those anymore.

“But Chelsea, that will leave only nine men for the sneak attack on Whiskey Company. That’s just not enough.”

You think you’re so smart. Beck Beckett thought he was smart. If you don’t start behaving, I can make you look just like Mommy.

Ogden’s face turned white. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. The general glanced at Mommy. She was still walking away, still crying. He looked back at Chelsea.

“Tell Dustin Climer to split his eighteen men,” he said. “Tell him to lead the attack on Dawsey. Corporal Cope can continue to Detroit as planned.”

Chelsea closed her eyes, then pushed her thoughts to Mr. Cope and Mr. Climer. It was so much easier now, so much faster.

It is done. Now go make sure the rest of your men are ready for the contingency plan.

She turned and walked back into the Winnebago’s heat. Mommy started to cry louder, but Chelsea shut the door and then she couldn’t hear it anymore.

The little bastards were fighting back.

She was in the damn suit again, in the cramped containment cell with Dr. Dan. Clarence stood outside the open glass door. If Sanchez could somehow pull free from his restraints, Clarence wouldn’t even have a clear shot. That pissed Clarence off, but Margaret didn’t give a shit.

The latrunculin had worked, no question, but Sanchez’s body wasn’t the wide-open killing field it had been at first. Some of the crawlers seemed resistant to the drug, and those were splitting, dividing. It wasn’t mitosis, nothing so elegant—the little bastards simply split into two smaller versions, each of which grabbed and incorporated free-floating muscle strands that broke away from dead crawlers. Under the microscope it was like watching a mass of tiny snakes entwining with each other, merging, becoming a collective organism.

She felt a sensation of dread—if the crawlers developed resistance to latrunculin, then she had no weapons that could keep Sanchez alive. If that happened, the only way to stop them was to kill the host.

“He’s getting weaker,” Dan said. “Breath rate is increasing, pulse is getting a little erratic.”

She’d doubled the dosage, and that had helped, but the crawlers were still in there, still heading for his brain.

How many had already made it?

She’d stayed ahead of this whole thing by trusting her instincts, following her gut. And right now her gut told her that if enough crawlers reached Sanchez’s brain, there would be no coming back.