Contagious (20 page)

Perry didn’t look away from his monitor. “Naw, you were right about the stereotype. It just doesn’t apply to football. You have to be smart to be good at football, because it’s complicated.”
He turned and smiled at Clarence. “The dumb jocks play basketball.”
Perry turned back to face the monitor.
Clarence shook his head, and Margaret just laughed.
CHELSEA IN CHARGE
Chelsea Jewell slowly woke. Her head hurt real bad. She wanted her mommy.
No, that wasn’t right. She had to watch out for Mommy. Mommy might want to hurt her. Chelsea wanted her daddy. Daddy was still okay.
And yet
that
wasn’t right, either. She didn’t
want
her daddy . . . she wanted to
protect
her daddy.
She wanted to protect what was
inside
of Daddy.
Are you awake?
She looked around the room. Where had that voice come from? She couldn’t see anybody.
Are you awake?
“Yeah,” Chelsea said. “Where are you?”
I am very far away.
“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Then why can I hear you?”
Because you are special. You are the only one there who can hear me.
“Mommy and Daddy can’t hear you?”
Not yet.
“My daddy is sick,” Chelsea said. “So am I. I feel a little better now, but my head hurts real bad, and now my tongue feels all thick and stuff. Mommy scares me real bad. I think she wants to hurt me.”
You don’t need to be afraid of your mommy.
“Are you sure?”
Yes.
Chelsea felt the fear of her mother vanish as if a breeze had blown it away.
Your daddy is not sick. He’s very important.
Chelsea saw visions of something triangular, something that resembled one of her yellow wooden blocks, the one that looked like a little pyramid, except in her vision it was black and moved on strange legs. It was beautiful. It was
special
. Just like Mommy always called her
special
.
“Daddy has pretty dollies inside of him,” Chelsea said. “Is that why he’s important?”
That’s right. Daddy has dollies inside of him.
Mommy called Chelsea special, and Mommy had always protected Chelsea.
And now Chelsea would protect Daddy. Daddy, and the dollies.
The closet door opened, spilling light inside.
“Honey,” Mommy said, “what the heck are you doing in here?”
Chelsea blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. She waited for the fear, but it didn’t come. The voice said she didn’t need to be afraid, and she wasn’t.
“Sleeping,” Chelsea said.
“But why in the closet?”
Chelsea shrugged. “I dunno.”
“That’s what your father said. I found him sleeping behind the couch, of all things. Are you guys playing some joke on me?”
Chelsea shook her head.
“Riiiight,” Mommy said. “You both hide somewhere to sleep, and it’s not a joke on me? We’ll just see about that. But enough playing around.
How are you feeling?”
“No so good,” Chelsea said.
Mommy picked Chelsea up and laid her back down on the bed. She put her hand on Chelsea’s forehead. Mommy’s hand felt cool and nice.
“You’re not as hot as you were,” she said. “Do you feel worse or better than before?”
“A little better,” Chelsea said.
Mommy’s brow wrinkled up, and her eyes narrowed.
“Honey, open your mouth,” she said. “Stick out your tongue.”
Chelsea did. Mommy got that worried look on her face.
“Honey, you’ve got blue spots on your tongue. Does your tongue hurt?”
“A little,” Chelsea said.
“Stick it out again. I’ve never seen that before. I don’t like it. I think tomorrow we’re all going to the doctor.”
Chelsea felt a shiver ripple across her skin. The
doctor
. The doctor that always hurt her with needles and stuff. The voice was wrong—she
should
be afraid of Mommy.
“But I don’t like the doctor,” Chelsea said.
“And I don’t care if you like him or not, young lady, you’re going. You and your father both. He’s itching like crazy, and he’s getting these orange welts on his skin.”
“Daddy has dollies inside of him,” Chelsea said. “My special friend said so.”
“Oh, you have a special friend now? How
nice,
honey. What’s his name?”
Chelsea thought for a second, but she didn’t know his name. She shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Well, you can’t have a special friend and not give him a name,” Mommy said. She gently pushed Chelsea back down in the bed and started tucking the covers around her. “What would you like to call him?”
“How about . . . Chauncey?” Chelsea asked.
Mommy smiled. “Ahhh, Chauncey, like Uncle Donald’s favorite basketball player?”
Chelsea nodded. “Yeah. And his name sounds like mine. Chelsea and Chauncey.”
“Well, that’s a fine name,” Mommy said. She stroked Chelsea’s hair, and that felt really nice. “You get some more sleep, okay?”
“I’m not that tired anymore,” Chelsea said. “I want to get up.”
“Just lie here for a little bit longer, honey. Then you can get up if you want, but stay here and play with your toys, okay? I don’t want you running around. I’ll check on you later, and we’ll see the doctor tomorrow.”
Mommy leaned down and kissed her forehead, then left the room and shut the door behind her. Chelsea sat in the darkness, wondering if Chauncey would talk to her again.
He did.
You must not go to the doctor. You have to stop her .
Chelsea whispered so Mommy wouldn’t hear her. “How can I stop her, Chauncey? Mommy’s in charge. I have to do what she says.”
She ’s not in charge of you.
“She’s not?”
No. You’re in charge of her.
“I am?”
You are.
“Well . . . she’s still lots bigger than me. What if she
makes
me go to the doctor’s?”
You can stop her tonight. After she goes to sleep.
A picture flashed in Chelsea’s thoughts.
Yes, she could do that to Mommy.
THE SHOOTER
Dew could only take so much hemming and hawing.
His Colt M1911 .45-caliber pistol lay on the shooter’s table. It was loaded, hammer back, safety engaged. Perry Dawsey stood there, in ear protectors and goggles, staring down at the weapon.
“Look, Dew, this is cool and all, but I just don’t want to shoot, okay?”
“Pick up the gun, kid,” Dew said. “I have a mean piss of a hangover thanks to you, and I’m really not in the mood for this. You’re embarrassing me in front of an entire shooting range.”
The range was empty, of course. Dew had rented the whole thing.
Perry stared down at the .45. “But what if I pick it up and . . . you know . . . I get the urge to shoot
you
.”
Dew pulled up his pant leg and drew his .38. “I’ll stand behind you, with this aimed at your back. If you even turn around funny, I’ll kill you.
Does that make you feel better?”
“A little,” Perry said. Dew would have laughed if the kid hadn’t looked so damn serious.
Perry kept staring at the .45.
Dew sighed. “Now what?”
“What if I . . . what if I listen to Bill?”
“What if you kill yourself, you mean?”
Perry nodded.
“Look kid, you gotta grab this thing by the balls.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Shit, sorry,” Dew said. “Just a figure of speech. Listen. Ronald Reagan, the greatest president that ever lived, he had a quote that sums this up nicely:
If it takes a bloodbath, let’s get it over with
. So if you’re going to kill yourself, let’s stop fucking around and get it done.”
“You’re one of those sensitive hippie types, I see.”
“I have a flower garden at home,” Dew said. “And I’m wicked good with a crochet hook. Seriously, you can’t go through life afraid of this shit. Stop being a fucking pussy and pick up the goddamn gun already.”
Perry slowly reached for the .45, then drew his hand back.
“If you shoot yourself in the head, that only hurts for a second,” Dew said. “If I shoot you in the foot, it’s going to hurt for a long time. So pick it up or say good-bye to a little piggy.”
Perry reached out again and picked up the .45. His hand shook violently at first, so badly that Dew wondered if the gun might actually go off. He was playing a dangerous game here. Dew kept the .38 pointed at Perry’s back, just in case.
“Just breath easy,” Dew said. “Point the gun and squeeze the trigger slow. You should be a little surprised when it goes off. And remember, after you shoot, remove the magazine and lock the slide to the rear. That will eject a round, so don’t be surprised by that. Inspect the chamber and magazine, then lay it on the table and move your hands away. Just like you did when we practiced.”
“Yeah, but then the gun wasn’t loaded.”
“Just do it like I told you, and you’ll be safe, okay?”
“Okay,” Perry said.
Dawsey pointed the .45 down the range and let out a breath. The pistol looked like a toy in his big hand. Dew would have given Perry the .38, but he wasn’t sure if the kid’s finger could fit through the trigger guard.
Dew waited, then
bang
, the gun fired. A little smoke curled up from the barrel as both men looked down the firing range. The target was at thirty feet. Perry had hit the center ring, just to the left of the
X
.
“Nice shot,” Dew said.
“I thought this thing was supposed to have a kick.”
“Remove the magazine, lock the slide to the rear . . . ,” Dew said, letting his voice trail off.
Perry nodded quickly and energetically. He carefully followed all of Dew’s instructions, then set the weapon on the table in front of him. He raised both hands slowly off the gun to show he wasn’t holding it. He looked . . . relieved. Like all the pressure was off, like he’d just lost his virginity.
“Okay,” Dew said. “So you didn’t feel the gun jump in your hand?”
Perry shook his head.
“When I shoot it, I can feel it kick, but it’s not so bad,” Dew said.
“Strong as you are I shouldn’t be surprised you can’t feel it at all.”
“Uh . . . Dew?” Perry had a look on his face like he was afraid to ask a question. For fuck’s sake—he had cut monsters out of his own body, had taken two bullets and kept on fighting, and he was afraid to ask a question.
He doesn’t want to look stupid,
Dew thought.
He doesn’t want to look stupid in front of YOU
.
“Spit it out,” Dew said. “You can ask me whatever.”
“Um . . . squeezing real slow is cool and all, I guess, but if I have to use this for real, don’t I want to fire faster than that?”
Dew smiled. “Sure, that’s a logical thing to ask. Not that you’ll have to use one of these for real, but just in case, reload the magazine and fire off the whole thing, fast as you can, okay? We’ll look at the target and you can compare accuracy. Then we’ll talk about how to fire in different situations. Sometimes you want one accurate shot, sometimes you want to lay down as much lead as you can as fast as you can. Okay?”
Perry smiled and nodded. A
real
smile for a change.
Still looked hideous with the stitches, but at least it was genuine.
Dew took three steps back. He casually pointed the .38 at the floor, but he wasn’t about to put it back in the holster. Not yet.
Perry loaded two more bullets into the magazine, inserted it, then thumbed the slide release so it clicked home. He pointed the weapon and fired off seven shots in less than two seconds. It sounded like a machine gun. Dew watched the kid’s hand move, or rather he watched it
not
move. It might as well have been chiseled out of granite and bolted to the wall.
Perry ejected the magazine, checked the chamber, set the gun and the magazine down, then raised both hands off it again in seeming slow motion. Dew stared downrange. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He flipped the switch that brought the target back to the firing station for a closer look.
Perry had put all six shots in the center ring. The center
X
wasn’t even there anymore, just a big hole with ragged paper edges.
Perry smiled and looked down at Dew. “That’s pretty good, right?”
“Kid, are you fucking with me? Are you
sure
you’ve never shot before?”
The big man shook his head. “No sir. Dad wouldn’t let me touch any of the guns. But, I mean, it’s only hand-eye coordination stuff, right? Like a video game. I’ve always been good at anything like that.”
Dew stared at the target. It made sense. Dawsey had been an elite athlete. Would have gone first round in the NFL draft, probably first overall, had it not been for the knee injury that ended his career. He was so strong he didn’t even feel the .45 kick—he could just point the barrel accurately and keep it perfectly still while he emptied the clip.
Dew suddenly wondered if teaching Perry to shoot was such a good idea after all. If Perry could kill people with his bare hands, imagine what he could do with a weapon and plenty of ammo.
UGLY BETTY
Betty Jewell’s body faced a dire situation. Half-formed crawlers disintegrated, spreading apoptotic death. She was guilty of nothing more than being just old enough for her telomeres to shorten and suffer the minor damage that faces us all. Her telomeric breakdown wasn’t as bad as her father’s, of course, as he had been twenty-six years her senior.
Had she been younger, maybe as little as five years younger, it would have gone better for her.
Of course, “better” meant that more crawlers would have already reached her brain. Her brain-mesh was thin, emaciated—it needed additional crawlers to fully complete the change and send the signal. More struggled to reach her brain, either dragging half-rotted bodies along her nerves or trying to move past the dissolving corpses of crawlers that had already shut down. These survivors reached out their pseudodendrites, grabbing, pulling, sending their pain signals to gauge the response.
If Betty died, the crawlers’ mission failed, so they fought the rot with counterchemicals designed to neutralize the chain reaction. Her original infection spots were already a lost cause—there was too much apoptosis there to stop the process. The crawlers sent some of their number to stay at the edges, secreting the neutralizing chemical, trying to localize the damage and stop it from spreading. Inside these perimeters the rot dissolved flesh and scored bone.
That meant bad news for Betty Jewell’s face.
The crawlers didn’t consider the face a priority. Eyes to see, yes, mouth to breathe, of course. Those were important, as were her hands.
Hands could use tools.
Hands could use
weapons
.
The crawlers used their collective logic to split into several groups.
Some moved to the hands to try and save them, some moved to the brain to try and achieve the critical mass needed for the neural net, some to the eyes and ears and mouth to protect sensory input. A Betty who could not see, hear or talk could not defend, and that wasn’t a very useful Betty at all.