The Parasite War (12 page)

"If we drive it out of her body," he said, "how do we know that she'll be the same? I mean, this thing has got its hooks into her brain. How do we know it won't destroy her mind?"

"We don't."

Bowing his head, Alex prayed that he would find the strength to kill Jo, if Siegel's plan failed. The odds seemed overwhelming that he would have to do it. He had been unable to shoot her earlier tonight when he had stumbled upon the truth, but he couldn't afford to be so squeamish a second time.

"What do you say, Alex?" she asked. "Are you willing to give it a try?"

"I don't see what choice I have," he said. "Bring the drugs here, and I'll get Jo."

"I'll only be a minute."

Taking the lantern, Claire left him alone in the darkened office. He sat there for a little while, dreading what he must do. At last he gathered his strength, stood, and went after the woman he loved.

"What do you want?" Jo said. Her expression seemed to come from across the galaxy, though she stood not five feet away from him.

Siegel glanced at Alex, and it occurred to him, not for the first time, that all of this might be madness. They both could be utterly wrong. He could even be mistaken about what had happened tonight at the hideout. No, he had seen Flash eaten alive, and he was certain Jo had led his friend to his death. But it wasn't Jo who had done it, not really. It was something growing inside her—a virus, an evil humor, an avatar, a demon. It wasn't Jo, the woman he loved. He had to destroy it.

"Jo, Doctor Siegel's got a pill I want you to take," he said.

"A pill?" she narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Why? I'm not sick."

"Maybe not, but we think you might be. The pill won't hurt you. Think of it as preventive medicine."

"I don't want any pills. Goddamn it, Alex, what is all this bullshit?"

"As Alex told you," Siegel said, "this is just a precautionary measure."

"Then why don't you take it, Claire?"

"I think I'm immune to the illness that concerns us."

"Oh, yeah? What kind of illness is that?"

"A virus."

"Had it before?"

"No."

"Then what makes you think you're immune?"

"Logic."

"Something you're not strong on, if I remember correctly."

"You're referring to my schizophrenia," Siegel replied. "But you forget that I managed to get a doctorate. That required a certain amount of discipline."

"Oh, it's discipline we're talking about, is it?" She glared at Alex. "Like holding me prisoner and forcing me to take drugs against my will. Pretty kinky."

"We're at war," Alex reminded her. "Extraordinary times call for unusual measures."

"Bullshit."

"You're stalling, Jo."

"Now why would I do a thing like that?" She sneered at him.

"It doesn't matter. We'll use force, if necessary."

"Wait just a minute." Jo's tone abruptly became conciliatory. "There's no need to get nasty about this. If it'll make you feel better, I'll eat the drugs."

"It's just one drug, one pill."

"Well, lay it on me."

Did she know? Did she understand what they were about to do to her? Did the thing inside her understand? Was it laughing at them, envisioning their bitter disappointment when this long shot failed? There was only one way to find out.

Siegel held a tiny, black film can in her right hand. With her left, she unscrewed the top and shook a single blue tablet into her palm.

Jo looked from one to the other. The door was locked, and there was an armed guard right outside. She had to take the pill, though she didn't know what it was, or why they wanted her to take it. The look in Alex's eyes must have convinced her—or convinced the thing living inside her—that she would die if she did not take it. She extended her hand and accepted the pill.

"Would you like some water with it?" Siegel asked.

"No, thank you." Jo popped the tablet into her mouth unceremoniously. "Now what?"

"Now we wait."

Jo sighed and sat on the floor, cross-legged. It would take at least thirty minutes before the psychoactive drug would take effect. At least, under normal circumstances it would take that long. There was no way of knowing how long it would be with an infected person.

For Alex, the minutes passed with excruciating slowness, marked only by the swift beating of his heart.

"Can you turn that lantern down?" Jo asked, after several minutes. "It's bothering my eyes."

Siegel nodded, and Alex turned down the light. This, he suspected, was the first sign that the drug was working. The faint rays of the lantern should not have been troublesome. Perhaps he and Claire wouldn't have to wait much longer. As much as he feared what was to come, he wished for it to happen soon. He could barely stand this. Cool as it was in the unheated room, he felt a drop of sweat form on his temple and trickle down into his beard.

"What is this drug?" Jo suddenly asked. "What are you doing to me?"

"You'll be all right, Jo," Doctor Siegel said soothingly. "Don't be afraid."

"Don't be afraid?" Her face remained oddly expressionless in the dim glow of the lantern. "How can I not be afraid? Everything is changing."

"Changing? What do you mean?"

"The colors coming out of that flame," she said. "They weren't there before."

"Certainly they were," Siegel replied. "Only your perception of them has changed."

Jo's chin fell onto her chest. "I won't let this happen," she murmured.

"Why not, Jo?" Alex said. "Just go with it."

"No, I can't. The pattern is rearranging itself. I don't know how to manipulate it when its changing."

Alex and Siegel looked at each other. Was this the colloid talking now, or merely Jo, babbling in a psychedelic stupor? The muscles of her face grew taut, teeth bared in a fearful grimace, as she sank ever deeper into the trip.

The sound of shattering glass broke the spell. Jo cowered as if her mind had fragmented into shards. Alex was unable to look away from her. This distraction from outside might ruin everything, but it had to be dealt with.

"Stay with her." He pulled Jo's .32 from underneath his coat and handed it to Siegel. Leaving them, he rushed out of the room, the Ingram in his hands. Riquelme, just outside the door, was shouting, "Alex, they're trying to break in."

"Come with me," he said. They hurried down the corridor, toward the sound of popping gunfire and breaking glass. Screams of rage and pain followed, and as they entered the north wing's second floor, Alex saw why.

Elvin was struggling with one infected man, while another crawled through the broken window. Two more lay dead on the floor, while Samuel calmly fired at the window with a handgun. A bullet hit an infected man in the jaw, and his twitching body fell across the window sill.

Running across the room, Alex pushed the corpse outside, seeing three more just outside the window. Riquelme fired a burst at them, hitting two of them in the chest. One of the infected pitched to the sidewalk below, while the other managed to hang onto the fire escape, legs dangling.

Alex saw what had happened. The infected had formed a human pyramid, and one of them had climbed up onto the fire escape to pull it down. Now dozens of them ascended toward the open window, thick as maggots on the black, metal ladder.

"The flamethrower!" Alex shouted. "Get a flamethrower!"

Samuel started toward the door. Almost as an afterthought, he turned and shot the infected man struggling with Elvin. Then he ran off in search of the flamethrower, his cassock trailing behind him. Alex, Elvin, and Riquelme stood shoulder to shoulder, firing at those who tried to come in through the window. Fortunately, only one could enter at a time, and the bodies that didn't fall to the ground were piling up on the fire escape landing, making it difficult for the others to get past them. By this time, several guerrillas were standing behind Alex, firing while he reloaded.

It seemed like hours before Samuel returned with the flamethrower, though it was probably more like ninety seconds. Riquelme took it, as Alex prayed that there was still some life in its battery. Hands clutched at them through the open window as they helped Riquelme into the straps holding the tanks on his back. Just as the infected were coming over the sill, Riquelme turned to face them. In another few seconds there would be too many of them inside to deal with. Alex held his breath as Riqueleme squeezed the trigger. A brilliant orange jet flared and enveloped the squirming infected. Their screams were ghastly. Smoke billowed back into the cramped room, choking Alex with a foul stench—burning, diseased flesh and hair.

Tears came to his eyes, and he gagged on the nauseating odor, as Riquelme moved closer to the window and blasted another fiery spurt at the infected. Several of them leaped off the fire escape and ran away, their tattered clothing on fire.

He kept burning them until the fire escape was cleared. By this time, the corridor outside the room was crowded with guerrillas, all anxious to join the fight.

"Get axes, chisels, anything you can find," Alex ordered, stamping at small fires inside the room. "Dislodge the bolts holding that fire escape and pull it inside the building."

But before they could get started, a thunderous pounding echoed through the armory.

"What the fuck is that?" Alex said. He picked up the Ingram and headed down toward the main room, several of the guerrillas following him. The pounding sounded at intervals of every few seconds, and Alex soon saw where its source lay.

The big door on 33rd Street was under attack. Moving fast, Riquelme and Samuel right behind him, Alex climbed up to the catwalk and looked out the dirty windows to the street. Dozens of the infected were carrying a fallen telephone pole, ramming it into the red doors again and again. One door was beginning to buckle, the sound of cracking wood echoing through the enclosed space.

"The flamethrower won't work very well from up here," Alex said.

"Napalm," said Riquelme.

"Right," Alex agreed.

Alex watched tensely through the window as Samuel ran down to get the canister. It wouldn't be much longer before the enemy were surging through that door.

He prayed that he could stop them. If the infected burst into the armory in their hundreds, his guerrillas would not last long.

Alex heard Jo screaming as he dropped the napalm from the center window of the armory. He lost sight of the canister in the dark swirl of bodies below, but then the fire spilled out of it, flowing brilliantly over the cracked pavement like a time-lapse film of the brightest flower in creation. Flaming chunks of the canister's magnesium casing flew through the air and burned through diseased flesh like blazing bullets.

The infected who carried the telephone pole were shrouded in flames. In mid-charge, they continued to rush toward the door for a couple of seconds before dropping the pole with a resounding thud. They scattered in all directions, some of them falling onto the asphalt, others running in circles, the fire clinging to them. Their screams seemed inhuman, as if animals were dying down on the street, not men and women.

Samuel hoisted a second canister, preparing to toss it out the window as soon as Alex gave the word. But Alex saw that the telephone pole was on fire. The assault had ended. The infected who were not burned milled aimlessly about the smoldering corpses. Smoke plumed up into the night sky past the window, but the fire was not close to the wooden door, and it seemed unlikely that it would damage the brick front of the armory.

A scream issued up from the depths of the building, jolting him back to what he had been doing before the attack. It was Jo.

He ran back to the little room. Jo's screams grew louder, more hysterical. As he drew nearer, he heard Siegel's voice, too, insistent and firm. He opened the door, almost out of breath.

Jo was against the wall, flattening her body as if she were trying to be absorbed into the plaster. Her face was a grotesque mask of fear. She shrieked as if she—and not those outside—were being burned alive.

"She's incoherent," Siegel said. "In her suggestible state, she has been badly affected by all the violence."

"Jo, it's over," Alex said, gulping air. "The fighting is over."

"They wanted to kill me!" she screamed. "They were trying to kill me!"

Siegel shrugged in exasperation. "That's all she says."

"You don't understand," Jo said breathlessly. "They really want me dead."

"Who wants you dead, Jo?" Alex asked.

She rolled wild eyes toward him. "The colloids. They know you've got me."

"Didn't they send you here tonight?"

"Yes, but everything's changed now."

Siegel was silent, realizing that perhaps Jo was not raving. This wasn't what they had expected, but it might be a breakthrough, nevertheless. Alex tried to keep Jo talking.

"Why has everything changed?" he asked.

"Because you know about me."

"What do we know?"

She whispered, "I'm infected."

Alex said nothing. So blatant an admission disarmed him. Only an hour ago, Jo had fended off all implications that anything could be wrong, and now she admitted knowing she was infected. But why did she think the colloids wanted to kill her?

"Why are you afraid, Jo?"

"There's a colloid inside me," she said in a heart-breaking voice. "It's been running things. I didn't even know it at first."

"It's that subtle?"

"Yes, it's that subtle. Only when it was too late for me to fight did I realize. But by then it had complete control of me. Now it's confused, sick."

"Sick?"

"It's a parasite," she said. "It lives in the nervous system, redirecting the fields of the brain. But the wiring has suddenly changed. It can't manipulate me, and it's having trouble feeding."

"What does it feed on?"

Jo looked like a small child, her eyes huge with terror and wonder. "It feeds on thought."

"On thought . . . " Siegel grasped Alex's bicep. "No wonder we couldn't understand the nature of this thing. It isn't attracted by living tissue, but by neural energy."