Contagious (26 page)

“Sure,” Milner said. “All the time. It’s like a regular outing with my buddies back home.”
Perry smiled at him and held up one hand, waving his fingers toward his palm.
Come on,
the gesture said,
let’s go.
“Knock it off, Dawsey,” Dew said. “All three of you, just can the shit. Perry is here because he wants to work with us, ain’t that right?”
Perry nodded.
“As for you two”—Dew looked at Baum and Jens in turn—“stop being pussies. This is too important for you guys to be all bitchy because he got the drop on you.”
Dew stared at Baum. “Well?”
Baum kept looking at Perry for a few more seconds, then let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. “Fuck it,” he said. “He’s not the first prick to break my nose.”
Dew slid his stare over to Milner. “How about you?”
Milner finally tore his glare away from Perry to return Dew’s stare. “Your boy here is bad news, Dew,” he said quietly. “You could track this guy just by following the trail of corpses. He
murders
people.”
“They’re not people,” Perry said. Why couldn’t anyone understand that?
“Save it,” Milner said. “He’s a fucking psycho, Dew, and I’m not eating with him.”
Jens stood up and dropped his napkin on his plate.
“Sit your ass down, Milner,” Dew said.
“You got a problem with it?” Milner said. “Then fire me. Otherwise, I’ll be in the car.”
He turned and walked out of Applebee’s.
Perry looked down at his plate. Was Milner right? Was he just a psycho? No. Those people were not
people
at all. They were
infected
. They had to die.
All
the infected had to die.
“Don’t sweat it, Perry,” Dew said. “He’ll come around.”
Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. Perry didn’t give a shit what two peons thought. But . . . maybe he should. Dew seemed to think their opinion was important.
If Dew thought it mattered, well then, it mattered.
OATMEAL
Chelsea squirted the lighter fluid all over the kitchen. Daddy was crumpling up newspapers into big balls. He crumpled, then Mommy squirted them with her can of lighter fluid and put them into the kitchen cupboards.
Family time was really fun.
“Daddy, are you
sure
there aren’t any guns in Mister Burkle’s truck?”
Daddy nodded. Chelsea wondered if Daddy knew what he was talking about. Mr. Burkle would be awake in a few hours, and then Chelsea could ask him personally.
“Daddy, why don’t
we
have any guns?”
“Why do you want guns, honey?” Daddy said. “Are . . . are you going to shoot me?”
Chelsea sighed. Now she understood why sometimes Mommy used the
you’re so stupid
voice on Daddy. Of
course
she wasn’t going to shoot him. Why would she shoot someone who had the dollies?
“Well, Daddy, Chauncey says we need guns. So go buy some.”
“We can’t just go
buy
them, honey,” Mommy said. “There’s, like, a waiting period or something, right Bobby?”
Daddy nodded.
Chelsea frowned. “Well, you two need to find guns. If you don’t, you’re going to have to punish each other.”
Daddy shook his head. “Chelsea, baby . . . I don’t want to hit your mom with the spoon again. Don’t make me do that.”
“Please,” Mommy said. “No more. And we need to figure out where we’re going to go. Chelsea honey, are you
sure
we have to set the house on fire?”
“Mommy,”
Chelsea said. “If you ask me that just one more time, you get the spanky-spoon for sure!”
“I’m sorry,” Mommy said in a fast whisper. “I’m sorry, honey, I won’t ask again.”
“Not another word!” Chelsea said.
Daddy crumpled the newspapers faster.
Chelsea squirted a bunch of the smelly fluid under the fridge. Would the fridge burn? She wished she could stay and watch, but Chauncey said they needed to leave.
Daddy snapped his fingers. “Mark Jenkins! He’s got guns. Pistols and hunting rifles—he’s got everything.”
“So go get them,” Chelsea said.
“Honey,” Mommy said quietly, “he’s not going to just give them to us. We have to figure out how to take them.”
Chelsea thought on this for a minute. She sensed that Mommy didn’t really need the spoon anymore. Mommy was
different
from Daddy. Mommy was a protector, like Chelsea. Which meant that Mommy could . . .
“Mommy, stick out your tongue.”
Mommy did. Chelsea looked close—Mommy had dozens of pretty little blue triangles on her tongue. Information flooded Cheslea’s brain. Each of those triangles held thousands of little crawlers, ready to shoot out, shoot into someone else. That’s how Chelsea had given God’s love to Mommy—and now Mommy was ready to give it to other people.
“Mommy, can you give Mister Jenkins smoochies? Like I gave to you?”
Daddy smiled. “That would work. He’s got the hots for you, Candy.”
Mommy glared at Daddy. It was the
you’re so stupid
glare that usually went with the
you’re so stupid
voice.
“Well?” Chelsea said. “Can you do it, Mommy?”
“I . . . I guess I could.” Mommy sounded sad and excited all at the same time. She had sad eyes when she looked at Daddy, but Chelsea could feel her excitement at the thought of spreading God’s love.
Mommy cleared her throat. “How long will it take after I give him smoochies?”
“He’ll get sleepy pretty quick,” Chelsea said. “You may have to be with him for an hour, but then Chauncey says he will feel sick and want to go to sleep, just like Mister Burkle the Postman. Can you do that, Mommy? Can you get Mister Jenkins to play for an hour after smoochies?”
“Yes honey,” Mommy said. “I think I know a way to get Mister Jenkins to play for an hour, then go to sleep.”
“Well get going, slowpoke! I’ll stay here and watch Daddy.”
Mommy looked at Daddy. “I guess this is how it has to be.”
He nodded. Now
he
looked sad.
Mommy got her coat and left the house.
Things were changing
for Chelsea, changing fast. She had no frame of reference to truly understand what was happening to her, what was happening around her. The Orbital knew this, and put it to use. Her simplicity and lack of experience made her a powerful tool. Chelsea was
moldable
.
The Orbital had to prepare her for the worst-case scenario: its own destruction. Every day the probability of an attack increased. Should something happen to the Orbital, it had to ensure that Chelsea could still complete the objective. The Orbital could change her brain, make the fibers reproduce, fill in spaces between brain cells and increase her computing power and intelligence. It could make her a focal point of communication. But all the processing power and communication ability wouldn’t help if she couldn’t think for herself.
The Orbital had to turn Chelsea Jewell into a
leader
.
Chelsea sat on
her bed, thinking. The kitchen was too smelly. So was the living room. Daddy had used a whole can of gasoline in there, said it would burn real nice.
Chelsea, the bad guys may come for you soon.
“Oh,” Chelsea said. “That’s why we’re burning the house, right? So they won’t find us?”
Yes, but they will also come for the others .
“Others? What others, Chauncey?”
The others like you, like Daddy.
Chelsea hopped off her bed. She wanted to dance. There were other people like her? How exciting! She started to spin in circles.
“Where are they, Chauncey? How do I find them?”
You need to make them come to you.
You have the power to find them with your mind.
“Can I talk to them like I talk to you?”
Not the same way, not yet, but you can send simple messages. We will start by you talking to me with your mind, not your mouth.
Chelsea stopped spinning and closed her eyes.
Yes, Chauncey.
Good. Now reach out. Use your thoughts, reach out and find them.
Chelsea
thought
. She reached out. What a funny feeling! She felt her consciousness expanding, spreading. She sensed Mommy first. Then Mr. Burkle the Postman, although it was harder to sense him. He wasn’t as strong as Mommy. Chelsea sensed Daddy next—actually, she sensed the dollies inside Daddy. Oh, how fun! They were growing so
fast
!
Keep trying. More, find more. You must become stronger.
Chelsea took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She pushed. It felt . . .slippery. Her mind reached out, and made contact!
Several
contacts.
Ryan Roznowski. He had dollies, although he suspected that his wife was going to call the police soon. Chelsea couldn’t let that happen.
Mr. Beckett had dollies, too. And Old Sam Collins. And a woman named Bernadette Smith.
And . . .
And . . .
Beck Beckett, Mr. Beckett’s son. Beck felt
different
. Not like Daddy or Mr. Beckett. Chelsea knew Beck from school, even though he was a grade ahead. Thoughts of Beck made Chelsea angry, and she didn’t know why.
I have found five, Chauncey. What do I do now?
Tell them to come to where you are.
Tell them to bring guns.
Chelsea nodded. She did what Chauncey asked. But why was Beck coming if he didn’t have dollies? What good was he?
Chauncey? Beck Beckett isn’t like Daddy. Touching him feels like touching Mommy, but I didn’t give Beck smoochies.
That is because he received God’s love directly from me, just like you did. The dollies are very, very important, but people like you and Beck will protect them.
Chelsea suddenly felt mad. Did Chauncey like Beck more than her? Would Beck be Chauncey’s favorite?
Are you talking to him?
Yes, but it is taking him longer to develop.
Chauncey was
Chelsea’s
special friend,
not
Beck Butthead Beckett’s. Her anger grew.
What do we do now?
You have to start learning to think for yourself, Chelsea. Let me show you a new pretty picture.
Chelsea waited. Her mind still felt funny, like it was in many places at one time. Slippery? Was that the right word? No, more like . . . mushy. Like lumpy oatmeal. Ah, the lumps were the people she connected with.
An image exploded in Chelsea’s thoughts. A
gorgeous
image. Unlike anything she’d ever known. Like four lit-up hula hoops buried halfway in the ground, a big one at the end, three smaller ones behind it. And pointing away from the smallest hula hoop, two big logs. The dollies would make this.
Oh, Chauncey. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. What is it?
When Mommy and Daddy take you to church, do they tell you about heaven?
Oh, yes! The preacher talks about God, and heaven and Jesus and how Jesus loves us no matter what.
This image you see, Chelse a, is a door to heaven.
She felt joy in her chest.
Really? This is really a door to heaven?
You will protect the dollies so they can build it. When they open it, Chelsea, angels will come through.
Angels? Really? Will they have wings?
They are not nice angels, Chelsea.
They are angels of vengeance.
What’s venjance mean?
They are coming to punish people who have been bad. Do you like bad people, Chelsea?
She shook her head. She most certainly did
not
like bad people.
Chelsea, I will not always be here to help you.
Chauncey, you can’t leave! You’re my special friend!
I’m not leaving yet, but may be soon. So you need to think for yourself. If you must help the dollies build this gate to heaven, how can you make that happen faster?
Chelsea thought. This was like school. She had to help the dollies build the gate to heaven. Only a special girl could do such a thing, but Jesus loved her, the Bible said so. She could do it. But how to make it build faster. Well, she needed . . .
We need more dollies! And more chosen people to protect them!
That’s right, Chelsea. And how could you find more dollies?
The answer came quicker this time.
I need to search farther.
Chelsea pushed her thoughts. The oatmeal spread. She sensed dollies, out in many,
many
places. They were too far apart to come together, and she needed many to build the gate. She needed . . . she needed at least thirty-three dollies.
Chauncey hadn’t told her that number, and yet she knew it. How? She searched her thoughts. The number seemed to come from the dollies. Was that what Chauncey meant by thinking for herself?
She could do this on her own. She could make Chauncey proud.
Chelsea pushed further. More hits, more dollies . . . and something else . . .
. . . something dark . . .
. . . something . . .
mean
.
Her breath came faster. She couldn’t move. It was like a dream, one of the nightmares when the boogeyman came for her and she ran and then she fell and she couldn’t get up and the boogeyman was coming and he had that sharp knife and he was going to stab it in her back but it couldn’t be a dream she was awake this
thing
this
monster
this
giant monster
was going to
get
her.
“No!” She meant to scream the word, but it came out a hoarse whisper so quiet she could barely hear it herself. “No no nonono!”
Chelsea, stop, do not connect to him.
“The boogeyman,” she hissed. “Chauncey, the boogeyman is
real.
”
Chelsea, stop!
The connection broke. Chelsea blinked, then sucked in a big breath. Her whole body shook. Her pants were hot and wet.
She’d peed herself.
Do not connect with that one. He is the destroyer. He wants to stop us, Chelsea. He wants to hurt you. You must remember what that one feels like, recognize it, and never connect with him again.
She nodded. She knew the destroyer was evil. She’d
felt
it.
Chelsea got off her bed and looked down. Her pants were soaked with pee-pee. She felt her face flush red. She’d
wet
herself. She was a big girl, and that wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. She’d peed herself because of the boogeyman.
The fear hadn’t left, but Chelsea Jewell started to feel the first embers of other emotions.
The embers of rage.
The embers of
hate.
Perry sat very
still. He waited for the feeling to return.
It did not.
A tear in the grayness, brief but painfully intense, like listening to quiet static on headphones only to be shocked by an unexpected blast of screeching feedback so loud it made your ears ring for days.
But it wasn’t noise, and he hadn’t heard with his ears. It was an emotion—fear. Pure terror, rich and undistilled by logic or rationality. He’d felt it in his soul. He still felt an echo of that fear. So