Contagious (6 page)

Dew stared for a few more seconds, then picked up the map and walked out of the house. As he left, he saw the first of the two Margo-Mobiles pulling up into the drive. When Margaret found out she had nothing to work with, she would not be happy.
WHIPPED
The semi’s air brakes hissed as the tractor slowed and stopped.
The McMillian house wasn’t much to look at, a typical boxy three-bedroom, two-story affair, once-white paint now cracked, peeling and speckled with dark spots of exposed and well-weathered wood. Big yard, old trees devoid of leaves. Two gray vans were parked on the street, and she guessed that the nondescript black Lincoln in the lawn belonged to Dew.
The downpour was actually a welcome break—icy rain would keep curious neighbors inside. A few might peek outside at the commotion, but as long as they didn’t try to cross the perimeter, that was fine.
Gitsh craned around the driver’s seat to look at Margaret, his ’fro bouncing a bit with each movement. “Should Marcus and I go ahead and connect the trailers, prep the examination room, ma’am?”
“Yes, Gitsh,” Margaret said. “Thank you.”
He got out and closed the driver’s-side door.
Examination room
was a funny phrase. That’s what they all called it, of course, but so far they hadn’t done any examinations—only autopsies. Not exactly ironic, considering that this two-trailer setup had originally been designed for on-site postmortems of infectious-disease victims. If you had an unknown, lethal contagion, it made more sense to analyze the corpses where they died rather than haul them to a Biohazard Safety Level-4 lab. No matter how secure the transportation, you were still at risk of spreading the contagion somewhere along the route. A portable BSL-4 autopsy facility, on the other hand, let you not only analyze the body on the spot but incinerate it as well.
A few seconds after Gitsh shut the driver’s door, the passenger-side door opened and a soaking Dew Phillips climbed in. Bits of ice clung to his bald scalp and the ring of red hair that circled around the back of his head from temple to temple. He looked tired, wet and pissed off.
“One survivor,” Dew said. “An infant boy, in the van on the right. Doc Braun, can you check him out? He’s not infected.”
“How do you know?” Margaret asked.
“Because if he was, Perry would have killed him. Just like he did the three people that were.”
Margaret sagged back into her chair. They were too late. Again.
“I’ll check out the child, Dew,” Amos said. “But I have to wonder why you government types can’t control Mister
It Puts the Lotion in the Basket
.”
“He put Baum and Milner in the hospital,” Dew snapped. “Maybe
you’d
like to try and control a six-foot-five murderer who can probably bench-press this whole rig?”
Amos shook his head. “No way. That alkie scares the fu-schnickens out of me. Make sure that psycho is gone from the house before I go in, or I’m not even getting out of this vehicle.”
“Tiny white man makes a good point,” Clarence said. “Dew, can your guys get the eunuch out of here?”
Dew nodded, tiredly. Margaret sat forward.
“No,” she said. “I want to talk to him first.”
“Forget it, Margo,” Clarence said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“First of all, the man’s name is Perry, not
the eunuch
, not
Mister It Puts the Lotion in the Basket
and not
that psycho
. Second, nothing is wrong with me.”
“
Something
is wrong with you,” Dew said. “Didn’t you hear me say he just killed three people?”
“Yes, and I also heard you say he didn’t kill the baby because the baby isn’t infected. He didn’t kill the boy who found Baum and Milner, and, I might add, he didn’t kill them, either. I’m not infected, so I’ll be fine.”
“No way,” Clarence said. “He’s probably drunk again. Dew, is he drunk?”
“If not, he’s on his way.”
“See?” Clarence said. “That’s it, Margo, you’re not going in there.”
“He’s right,” Dew said. “Forget it.”
“Quorum carries,” Amos said. “Moving on to new business, the chair recognizes Senator Gonzales from Topeka.”
“All of you just
shut up,
” Margaret said. “We can’t have Perry killing the hosts. Someone has to get that through to him.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Dew said. “You can bet the next time he gets a sniff, he’ll be in handcuffs and leg irons before we track it down.”
Amos laughed. “Handcuffs? He’ll probably just eat them.”
“Handcuffs?” Margaret said. “
Leg irons?
After the tortures that man has faced, you think you can get through to him by putting him in chains?”
“He just
killed
three people,” Clarence said. “Someone please tell me I’m not hearing this bleeding-heart-liberal bullshit.”
“Margaret,” Dew said, “you need to pull your head out of your ass.”
“Stop it!”
Margaret shouted. “All of you, just stop it! We need to figure out why Perry is doing this, and we need to figure it out now. He’s my patient, did you guys forget that? I’m the one who kept that rot from killing him.”
“Hey, I helped,” Amos said.
Margaret waved her hands dismissively. “Yes, of course you did. That’s not what I meant. I know that Perry is extremely dangerous—I’m not an idiot. But since we discovered he can find hosts, he’s run loose. He could have taken off anytime he wanted to, but he hasn’t. And yet you keep him isolated from everyone.”
“You’re goddamn right I keep him isolated,” Dew said. “That’s what you do with a psycho. Forget it, Margaret. You’re not going in there.”
“The action is over,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing but bodies in that house, so now it’s my call.”
“Whoa, Nellie,” Amos said. “I hear a glass ceiling shattering somewhere.”
“I’m not kidding,” Margaret said. “This is now an analysis situation, which means that
you
”—she pointed at Dew—“and
you
”—she pointed at Clarence—“have to do what
I
say. Am I right?”
The two men said nothing.
Amos leaned forward. “I’m afraid that’s what Murray ordered, gents.” He pointed to his head. “Photographic memory and all. Not as cool as carrying a gun, but being smart does have its uses.”
Dew threw up his hands. “You know what? Fuck this. I have to go contact Colonel Ogden. Making sure nothing happens to Margaret is your job, Otto. Good fucking luck.”
Dew got out of the truck, slamming the door behind him as hard as he could.
“This is bullshit,” Clarence said.
“I’m going to the back to get body bags,” Margaret said. “Amos, you come help me. Clarence, if you’re so worried about my safety, get in there and tell Perry to stay put. Feel free to threaten him, because that’s what you men do and it seems to work so well. But put on your hood
and
gloves before you go in!”
Margaret crossed in front of Amos to go out the sleeper cabin’s passenger-side door. Like Dew, she slammed it shut behind her.
Clarence sat in silence, shaking his head.
Amos unsuccessfully tried to choke back laughter.
“Something funny?” Clarence asked.
“
Put on your hood and gloves,
” Amos said. “If you weren’t so pissed already, I’d probably make fun of you.”
“Now is not the time, Amos.”
“I said I
would
make fun of you. I’m not actually making fun of you. Big difference. Man, I can only imagine what that woman is like in the sack.”
“In the bedroom I’m in charge,” Otto said sullenly. “Unfortunately, that seems to be the
only
place I’m in charge.”
“You’re whipped.”
“I don’t see you backing her down.”
“Everyone knows
I’m
whipped,” Amos said. “My wife, my daughters, Margaret—not exactly a news flash. But you, Mister Alpha Male? You go ahead and carry the illusion that someday you’ll be able to change the situation.”
“Fuck you, midget. And help me with these gloves.”
Amos held the gloves so Otto could slide his hands inside. Amos made sure the connecting rings snapped home, then ran sticky tape around them.
“Hey,” Amos said. “Twenty bucks says Dawsey kills you.”
“You’re on.”
“I’ll take it out of your locker if he does,” Amos said. “Wouldn’t look right me rifling through the pockets of a corpse.”
“Whatever. If you win, I guess I won’t really be worried about appearances.”
Both men fitted slim earpiece wires around their right ears. Each wire frame contained a small speaker that fit into the ear canal, a microphone and a transmitter that routed into the MargoMobile’s communication center. The sets were on a predefined frequency, same as Dew and the other agents used. They let the scientific team communicate with one another as well as monitor any communication between Dew and his team.
Otto pulled on his black helmet. Amos helped him seal it, then ran a line of sticky tape around the metal collar. Otto held out his right hand, exposing the suit controls mounted in the inner wrist. Amos simply pressed the “on” button, and the compressor mounted on Otto’s belt started up with a nearly silent hum. His suit’s heavy PVC fabric billowed up slightly, the result of higher pressure inside. Should the suit suffer a tear, air would flow outward, theoretically keeping any contagions or toxins away from his skin until the suit could be repaired and decontaminated.
“I’m off to make twenty bucks,” Clarence said.
“Been nice knowing ya,” Amos said. “See you on the other side.”
Otto nodded, then opened the wide sleeper-compartment door and hopped down. The icy rain bounced off his black suit as he walked toward the house.
GETTIN’ HIS DRINK ON
Perry finished his fifth beer. A blessed buzz started to work its way through his brain. He stood up and walked to the fridge. The door wouldn’t open all the way. It was partially blocked by the body of the man who had shit all over himself. Perry put a foot on the man’s hip and slid him to the right.
Inside the fridge he found another six-pack of Budwesier. Okay, so maybe the dead guy hadn’t had any discipline, but at least he hadn’t been one of those microbrew pussies.
Holding the fresh six-pack, Perry stepped over the body and sat back down behind the table just as another black-suited man came into the kitchen. This one carried only a pistol. Through the suit’s clear visor, Perry saw the oh-so-serious face of Agent Otto.
“Hey, Clarence,” he said. “You look like a fat ninja.”
“Thanks,” Otto said. “That means so much coming from a source of wisdom like you.”
Perry opened the bottle and drank it in one pull. Six down. Five more and he’d be nice and hammered. Everyone has to have goals in life, right?
Otto slowly looked around the room, surveying the damage. “Were you drunk when you killed these people?”
“They’re not people,” Perry said. “And no, I was not drunk, but I mean to correct that situation.” He opened the second bottle and drained half of it before putting it down.
“I guess so,” Otto said. “Listen, man, you know you scare the crap out of me, right?”
Perry shrugged. That was the way of things. Didn’t matter what he did, what he said, they looked at him like he was a monster. So why not live up to the billing?
“Margaret is coming in here,” Otto said.
“Sure she is,” Perry said. “Look at all the new toys she has to play with. See this one?” He nudged the dead little boy with his foot. “I call him Slinky.”
“Save me your psycho jokes,” Otto said. “Just understand that when she’s in this room, you make any sudden moves and I’ll put you down.”
“Oh, come
on,
Clarence! A gun? Don’t
be
that guy! How about you and I settle this the old-fashioned way?”
“Forget it.”
“What’s the matter, Clarence? Massa Dew say you can’t play with the white kids?”
Behind the helmet visor, he saw Clarence’s eyes narrow.
“Go ahead,
boy,
” Perry said. “Take a swing. I won’t tell on you.”
Perry hoped he would do it. Otto was big enough to count as a challenge. Not much of a challenge, but something. It would feel good to smash in his face.
He had nothing against Otto, really. Except that Otto was fucking Dr. Montoya, which meant he was getting laid, which was something Perry figured
he’d
never do again. If that wasn’t a good enough reason to hand out a beat-down, he didn’t know what was.
“I’ll pass,” Otto said. “You can save all that macho bullshit. Only one way you and I are going to dance, and that’s if a bullet takes the lead.”
“Oh, that’s horrible,” Perry said. “Did you write that shit yourself?”
Perry thought he saw Otto smile, just a little bit, but then the stone face slipped back into place.
Margaret came into the room carrying a double armful of green bags. She dropped them in a pile. In her black suit, she looked identical to Otto except that she was a foot shorter. Standing side by side, they looked like the adult and child versions of an alien from a bad sci-fi flick.
“Hey, Otto, your other massa is here,” Perry said. “Wake up, white people. The Jew is using the black as muscle.”
“I’m not Jewish, Perry, I’m Hispanic,” Margaret said. “And I’ve got
The Blues Brothers
on DVD, seen it about fifty times, so I know that line. Next are you going to tell me you hate Illinois Nazis?”
Good God. She knew
The Blues Brothers
?
“I also know you’re not racist,” she said. “So stop trying to push everyone’s buttons. You’re not good at it.”
Perry wondered if Clarence Otto really had any idea just how cool this chick was. He hated everyone in this fucked-up project, but he had to admit he hated Margaret a little less than the others. He tilted a fresh beer toward her.
“You want a beer,
chica
? I tried to offer your boy Toby one, but he told me the only good whitey was a dead whitey.”
Margaret sat down at the table, opposite the little body on the floor. She did it so casually it could have been a normal scene in any kitchen, save for her black biohazard suit and the corpses.
“No, Perry,
Clarence
didn’t say that. And no, I don’t want a beer, but thank you. You’ve got to stop this.”
“Stop drinking? Why, what a great idea. Sobriety has done so much for me.” He finished the beer and grabbed another. The buzz was really kicking into gear now. He wanted it, needed it to take over so he could forget. If he got drunk enough, maybe he could sleep.
“Perry,” Margaret said, “look around you. Look what you’ve done. You
killed
these people.”
“Why do you all keep saying they’re
people
? They were the walking dead.”
“No they