Contagious (3 page)

He made it one block before he stopped again. Who knew that running away would have so many distractions? First that great big superhero man, now a car accident. A fancy red and white Mustang and a little white hatchback, smashed head-on. The Mustang’s trunk was open. The little white car’s driver’s-side door was also open. The inside light of the hatchback lit up a man lying motionless, his feet still next to the gas pedal, his back on the wet pavement.
The man had blood all over his face.
And he was holding a gun.
There was another man in the passenger’s seat, not moving, leaned forward, face resting on a deflated air bag.
Over the pouring rain and the strong wind, Tad heard a small voice.
“Report!” the voice said. “Goddamit, Claude, report!”
Tad knew he should just keep running. But what if his parents came after him? Maybe he needed that gun.
Tad walked up to the man lying on the pavement. Rain steadily washed the blood off the man’s face and onto the wet-black concrete.
“Baum! Where are you?”
The voice was coming from a little piece of white plastic lying next to the man’s head. It was one of those ear receivers, just like they used on
Frankie Anvil,
his favorite TV show. Maybe this man was a cop, like Frankie.
Cops would take him away, protect him from Mom and Dad.
Tad looked at the earpiece for a second, then picked it up. “Hello?”
“Baum? Is that you?”
“No,” Tad said. “My name is Tad.”
A pause.
“Tad, my name is Dew Phillips. Do you know where Mister Baumgartner is?”
“Um . . . no,” Tad said. “Wait, does Mister Baumgartner have a big black mustache?”
“Yes! That’s him, is he there?”
“Oh,” Tad said. “Well, he’s lying on the ground here, bleeding and stuff.”
“Shit,”
Mr. Phillips said. “Tad, how old are you?”
“I’m seven. Are you the police?”
A pause. “Yeah, sure, I’m a policeman.”
Tad let out a long sigh. The
police.
He was almost safe.
“Tad, is there another man around, a man named Mister Milner?”
“I don’t know,” Tad said. “Is Mister Milner like, really,
really
big?
“No,” Mr. Phillips said. “That’s someone else.”
“Oh,” Tad said. “Mister Milner might be the short guy in the passenger seat, but he looks dead. Can you send someone to get me? I’m not going back home.”
Mr. Phillips spoke again. This time his voice was calm and slow. “We’ll send someone to get you right away. Tad, listen carefully, that really big man you talked about . . . is he there with you now?”
“No, he’s gone,” Tad said. “I think he’s going into my house.”
“Your house?”
“Yes sir. I live right down the street.”
“Okay, hold on to that earpiece. We’ll use it to find you. Give me your address, and then whatever direction you saw that big man walking, you run the
opposite
way. And run fast.”
THE SITUATION ROOM
The elevator opened at the bottom level of the West Wing. Tom Maskill and Murray Longworth walked out. Murray had made many trips to the White House in the past thirty years, of course, but none this significant, and none with this caliber of an audience: the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the secretary of defense, the chief of staff and, of course, the president.
There were actually two Situation Rooms under the White house. The first one could handle about three dozen people. That was the one seen on TV shows, in movies and in newscasts.
They walked right by it.
Tom led him through mahogany doors into the smaller of the two Situation Rooms. Like its more famous counterpart, this room sported mahogany paneling and nearly wall-to-wall video screens. This one, however, was more discreet. One mahogany conference table ran down the middle of the room, six chairs on either side. Very few people even knew that this room existed—it was mostly for situations unfit for public consumption.
Military men filled the chairs on the table’s left side (the president’s left, of course). Next to the president sat Donald Martin, secretary of defense, then General Hamilton Barnes, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, army general Peter Franco, air force general Luis Monroe, Admiral Nathan Begeley, head of the navy, and finally the highly opinionated, buzz-cut-wearing General Monty Cooper, marines.
Vanessa sat on the other side of the table, first chair to the right of the president. Then Tom’s chair, then the space for Murray. Empty chairs lined the walls. These were usually occupied by junior officials, assistants, but today everyone was flying solo. They couldn’t afford a leak. Maybe Gutierrez still wanted to reveal everything to the public, but at least he understood that until such a time came, they couldn’t afford extraneous eyes and ears.
“Mister President,” Murray said. “The attack is scheduled to begin in forty-five minutes. If I may, sir, I’d like to take advantage of the time to bring you up to date on another development.”
Gutierrez sighed and sagged back into his chair. Murray couldn’t blame him for showing frustration—what with the Iranians, increased hostility between India and Pakistan, the Palestinian complications, Russian troops rattling sabers over Arctic oil and, of course, Project Tangram, it had to be the longest first eight days in office any president had ever faced.
Gutierrez stayed slouched for a second, then sat up again and straightened his coat. It seemed a clear effort to look more presidential. He nodded at Murray.
“We’ve detected another possible host location,” Murray said. “Near Glidden, Wisconsin.”
“Is that anywhere near Bloomingville, where Ogden is going to attack?” Gutierrez asked.
“
South
Bloomingville, sir,” Murray said. “And no, it’s about seven hundred miles away. Glidden is near Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.”
“Is there a another construct?” Vanessa asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Murray said. “Dew Phillips is in Glidden, trying to find parasite hosts who could identify the construct’s location. He’s using Perry Dawsey to track down the hosts.”
“Dawsey?”
Vanessa said.
“He’s under control,” Murray said.
“Under control,” Vanessa said coolly. “I did a little fact-finding. When infected, Dawsey killed his friend Bill Miller. He killed Kevin Mest, the person who gave him the Mather location, and then it seems you forgot to tell us he burned three little old ladies to death to get the South Bloomingville location.”
Murray blinked. How had she found out about that?
“That was self-defense,” Murray said.
Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “Three women in their eighties, Murray? Self-defense?”
The president’s eyes narrowed. “Murray, is this true?”
She’d saved this up and sprung it on him, right in front of the president.
“Yes, Mister President, but I’m not kidding about self-defense. Those ladies were infected. They tried to fire-bomb Dawsey with a Molotov cocktail. Apparently, he caught it and threw it back.”
“That’s five deaths,” Vanessa said. “Tell us, Murray, why are you still using him?”
“We don’t really have a choice, ma’am,” Murray said. “As I’ve explained, the only reason we’ve found any of the gates is because Dawsey can track these hosts.”
“I understand that,” Vanessa said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Your bloodhound picked up the scent. Now send in professional soldiers, not Phillips and his pet psycho.”
Donald cleared his throat. “Vanessa, Ogden’s men are already deployed. I don’t think Murray has a choice here.”
She shot Donald a glare that spoke volumes. “Ogden has four hundred eighty men in the DOMREC,” she said, using the military acronym for Domestic Reaction Battalion. “Four companies of a hundred twenty men each. Ogden is going in with X-Ray Company and he’s got Whiskey Company on reserve there, right?”
Donald nodded.
“That leaves Companies Yankee and Zulu on the ground at Fort Bragg,” Vanessa said. “So why the hell aren’t we using them instead of Dawsey and Phillips?”
“We need to be subtle,” Murray said. “Glidden is a town, not the deep woods. If we drop two companies on Main Street, USA, that might attract a little attention.”
“And a rampaging psychopath won’t?” she said.
“That’s enough,” Gutierrez said. “Murray, I’m sure you took steps to keep Dawsey in check, am I correct?”
“Yes, Mister President,” Murray said. “We have two seasoned agents following Dawsey at all times. Dawsey will locate the hosts, then these men will move in, take Dawsey down if necessary and secure the hosts.”
General Cooper knocked twice on the table. “This is all good and fine, but we have an attack to monitor here,” he said in a voice so gruff it almost sounded like a caricature of how a marine general
should
talk. “Not to speak out of turn, Mister President, but there’s information we need to share so you know what you’re seeing when the attack begins.”
Gutierrez nodded. “Thank you, General Cooper. Murray, before we focus on Ogden’s attack, I want to make something clear. We know that this is a crisis situation and Americans may get hurt, but we don’t need them getting hurt by the people who are supposed to be solving the problem. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” Murray said. “I do.”
Murray did understand the need to control Dawsey—he just hoped Dew Phillips understood it as well. Vanessa Colburn wasn’t playing around. She clearly wanted Murray gone. And as much as he disliked that woman, she was right about one thing . . .
That kid
was
a fucking psycho.
YOU SHOULDN’T HIT YOUR KIDS
Dew Phillips ran a red light at the intersection of Grant and Broadway. He’d even put the port-a-bubble on top of his Lincoln, its circling light playing off the sheets of pouring rain. Fuck secrecy. He had two men down. That murdering kid was going after hosts again.
Dew wondered if any of the infected would be alive by the time Margaret arrived.
Thadeus McMillian Sr.
sat at his kitchen table, bouncing his five-year-old son, Stephen, on his knee. Stephen wore his favorite fuzzy yellow pajama bottoms and a little Milwaukee Bucks T-shirt. Looked so damn cute. Stephen was the good child. Tad Jr.? Not a good child. Sara? Not a good child.
Thadeus pushed the thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about his daughter.
A dozen empty beer bottles stood on the table, leaving wet ring-stains on the map spread across the table’s surface. There were more beer bottles on the floor, along with a half-empty fifth of gin. He didn’t drink gin. His wife, Jenny, guzzled the stuff.
The fucking alcoholic bitch.
She’d been a three-martini-a-day girl up until Junior started acting up. Since then she’d skipped the martini glasses altogether and started pouring gin right into her favorite Hello Kitty coffee cup. Every time she took a sip, that stupid cartoon cat seemed to stare at him.
Limping along on one crutch, Jenny hobbled into the kitchen. She couldn’t put weight on the foot, which was understandable if you saw the thing (and Thad had no desire to ever see it again). Jenny’s insistence on keeping Ginny Kitty in hand at all times complicated the crutch-walk even more.
She stopped just past the open doorway between the kitchen and the stairway that led up to the kids’ rooms.
She stared at him. So did that fucking cat.
“What are we gonna do about that boy of yours?” she asked.
Thadeus shrugged. “Dunno.”
“He’s a bad influence on Stephen and Sammy,” she said. “I don’t know why you let him run wild.”
“Look, I grounded him,” Thadeus said. “What else can we do?”
“You can discipline him,” she said. Thadeus looked away, ashamed. He
had
disciplined the boy . . . maybe a little too much. He’d hit his own son. Right in the face. Not
slapped,
but
punched.
How could he do that to his own flesh and blood? And yet the boy was acting so crazy. Something had to be done.
“Thadeus,” Jenny said, “we have to go, you know we do. They’re almost done, and we haven’t even left yet. We can’t take Junior, and we can’t leave him behind, either.”
He nodded slowly. Maybe Jenny was right. For fourteen years, ever since their first date, he’d been able to count on her for sound advice. Maybe she could see the obvious when he couldn’t, he didn’t know. Maybe she just cared for him enough to give tough love.
He hung his head, stared absently at the back of little Stephen’s head. Junior had always been his favorite. You weren’t supposed to have a favorite child, he knew, yet he couldn’t change the fact that Junior lit up his heart just a little more than the others. Maybe that was why he’d been so lenient.
“All right, Jenny,” Thadeus said. “Get him in here.”
Jenny leaned back so she could shout up the steps to the second floor.
“Junior! Come into the kitchen! Your father and I want to talk to you.”
She leaned forward again, resting heavily on her crutch. They heard Tad’s bedroom door open. It always squeaked. Thadeus kept meaning to oil the hinges, but hadn’t gotten around to it.
“You’ve got to have a firm hand,” Jenny said flatly. “You must not waver. You must be strong, just like you were with Sara.”
Sara. He didn’t want to think about Sara.
Tad stomped down the stairs, stomped fast.
But how could a little boy sound so heavy?
Thadeus watched Jenny lean back into the hall again.
An arm, a huge arm, lashing down, a hissing sound like a golf club swinging just before it hits the ball.
Then a dull, wet thonk, like the sound of a watermelon dropped on the floor.
Jenny’s head snapped down, then limply bounced back up but only halfway. The very top of her head wobbled like shaking Jell-O. She managed one staggering step, then dropped to the floor. Her Ginny Kitty cup landed with a ceramic clank, spilling four shots’ worth of liquor onto the kitchen’s linoleum.
Thadeus’s grip on little Stephen tightened as he stood. He started to come around the table, heading to the kitchen counter to grab a knife, a frying pan,
something,
when the monstrous man turned the corner.
Thadeus McMillian Sr. froze in his tracks.
“Holy fuck,” he said.
The huge, wet, blond nightmare stood in his kitchen doorway. Thadeus had seen a man that big once.
Almost
that big. He’d met Detroit Lions’ defensive tackle Dusty Smith in a bar. Dusty was six-foot-four, 270 pounds. More like a refrigerator with legs than a human being.
This guy was bigger than Dusty Smith.
And Dusty Smith hadn’t been holding a tire iron.
In one hand the man held the tire iron that had just killed Jenny. In the other massive hand, he held Thadeus’s baby, Sam. He wasn’t cradling Sam; he was holding the tiny baby the way you might pick up a toy doll that’s been left on the floor. Thumb and forefinger circled Sammy’s little neck, the three remaining fingers wrapped around Sammy’s yellow-pajama-clad body.