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“Take them. I practically have them memorized by now.”

Adam straightened the stack. “Keep at it. Whatever you need to continue analysis on these, you got it. We need everyone on this. Find as much information as you can on parasites that cause such erratic behavior and violence, and any other related viruses, diseases, or parasites. We need everything we can get our hands on.”

“You got it.”

***

Adam was fascinated by the
parasite. It was highly adaptive, unlike anything he'd ever seen. He had no data on the first victim, Jay Lehmann, but based on what he'd learned from the grocery store victims and the most recent reports (which were always sparse and not nearly as detailed as he'd like), and the help of the lab geeks and his favorite epidemiologist, he was able to put together a timeline on infection rate.

Stage one was initial contact. It seemed as though any bodily fluid tra
nsfer would infect, meaning the organism was microscopic and could enter the body with ease. Bites and scratches were the most effective way the hosts transferred it, but any contact with it would do. Since it could live outside of the body for an indeterminate length of time, hypothetically any area a host was in contact with could harbor
it.

It was much more sophisticated than the traditional
parasitic worm model, which was for the host to ingest the worm, cough up eggs, swallow them, and then it grew in their intestines or other parts of the body. In this case the parasite seems to exist in all parts of the body; every tissue and blood sample thus far had yielded at least a handful of the little buggers.

Stage two was illness. The nausea, bursting capillaries in eyes, fever, and sweat. Adam believed this was the period of time the
body was attempting to fight it, but it was too strong. It dominated the human immune system, took over like a plague.

Stage three was the coma. At this point the body is no longe
r able to stay conscious as it infects the entire body. The autopsy results revealed the parasites primarily conglomerated in the chest cavity, but often they were found clustered around the base of the neck and in the brain.

Stage four was, for lack of better words, complete insanity. The victims awoke violent, mentally disturbed, and with no trace of their former selves. It was like Barry said—encephalitis—but mixed with rabies and a bad acid trip.

Adam finished typing the last words of his report to send to the higher-ups. He knew the technicalities, the stages, the methods. Now it felt like a waiting game to see how bad it could get and how fast they could find a solution. He felt a little better having written down the stages and analyzed some data of his own. It felt right to him.

But really, it was all grim, but with their new solid information things were looking up.

Facts
, he told himself.
We’re getting the facts.

Another email popped up in his inbox. It was an apology from Jon Sanders, a guy who sent a tasteless email earlier. Jon sent it to the entire CDC; a picture of a zombie from a popular TV show. Adam could barely remember the words underneath it, but it was outrageously offensive. In retrospect, the behavior the infected exhibited was an awful like what movies showed, but the joke was still inappropriate. He hoped Jon was punished severely for it.

His phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It was his direct contact field agent, Erik Eskilson.

"This is Baker," he said. "Erik, tell me something good."

There was commotion on the other end. "It's worse."

Adam's blood pressure skyrocketed. "What do you mean?"

"The parasite evolved. It's growing."

"I know; the infection rate is spreading quickly. That isn't something to be so dramatic about—"

"No, Adam. It's
growing
. The parasite is physically growing in size. I'm sending photos now. I've gotta go, I'll call you as soon as I know more."

Erik hung up. Adam tabbed out of his report to his email. Moments later a new message popped up with a zipped file. There were five images, each worse than the last.

As he stared at the bloody, gaping hole in a little girl's chest cavity, he felt his lunch threaten to come up.

This
was
worse. Much worse.

The Missoula emergency room was packed beyond sanitary capacity. Every bed was filled, some with more than one person, and the remainders were slumped against walls and piled on top of each other. The sounds of moaning and crying merged into a constant hum of depression and sorrow. Only the occasional shrill scream broke the sick from their daze.

Craig Scott was one of the few nurses who hadn't jumped ship when things got bad, but now he was regretting it. As he made his way down the hall, stepping over and around the overflow of patients, he knew there was nothing anyone could do for the infected. They had no vaccine, no method of treating it. They didn't even have a way of giving comfort in the smallest of ways. No spare blankets, no food. No nurses or volunteers to hold hands and say everything would be okay.

He paused in front of the maternity ward entrance. It, too, was overrun with the town's infected. It was the last to go, since all the doctors did their best to keep that area free from potential infection. Eventually there was no choice. Some of the women were taken home, others with more sensitive situations airlifted to another hospital. Instead, the most severe cases were kept—no,
stored
—in there. If they weren’t in the feverish, flu-like stage, they were in a coma.

But how long until his hospital was overrun, too? And when they woke up?

Craig and the other nurses felt the impending destruction. As soon as the comatose patients awoke, they would be violent. The entire hospital was aware of the circumstances, yet many still wanted to help and see it through. Craig was one of them.

"Nurse, please, can I get some water?"

Sitting on the ground was a young woman. Her damp hair clung to her face. The foul sweat all the infected had was just beginning to manifest on her pale skin. The ice blue shade of her irises against the reddening whites was unsettling.

She had her hand on Craig’s leg. It took everything he had not to shake it off.

"Sure," Craig said, his voice muffled through the respirator all the staff took to wearing. "I'll get you some."

By the time he got back
, the girl would probably be in the coma.

Somewhere down the hall came another scream. A scuffle.

A gunshot.

A hush went down the hallway. Another two shots were fired and the entire hospital went into a frenzy. The wave of panic was instantaneous. Anyone who could walk was up and fleeing. They trampled those who were disabled.

Craig was shoved aside. His back hit the maternity ward doors, then they swung open. He fell flat on his back, catching sight of the mass of infected moving past before they swung shut.

"Help me."

He turned. A man lay under a gurney. Two children were huddled around him. He looked at Craig with a desperation so pure it made his heart ache.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled as he got up. "I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do"

There was no movement in the maternity ward because everyone in it was unconscious. Bodies were packed like sardines in beds, cots, and sheets on the ground. There were quadruple the amount since the last time he'd been in there.

There were no doctors or nurses in sight. Just people left to die. To his right he saw movement. Some of the infected began convulsing. Their limbs twitched erratically, hitting the nearest bodies next to them with loud thuds. One rolled off his bed onto two other people who began moving, too.

Craig tried to remember the protocol notes they were given when the infection first reached Missoula. Somewhere in it, it said to restrain victims who showed signs of consciousness when emerging from the coma. There was no way to restrain this many people.

Fear coursed through him. Thirty feet away a woman stood, her body hunched over, hands forming claws by her side. Her chest heaved. She looked straight at Craig.

He turned to escape, but one of the risen infected blocked his way. It was a man old enough to be his grandfather. His red eyes bore into Craig. Spittle flew from his mouth as he growled and lunged. He grabbed a hold of Craig’s I.D badge, tearing it from his neck as he jumped back.

Then the smell hit him with such voraciousness that he couldn't stop the spew of vomit. It caught in his mask, choking him. He ripped it off and fell to his knees. He felt dizzy. He tasted the smell, the acrid, thick scent of infected sweat.

The old man was on him. The others were rising, howling and grunting with the need to destroy. He watched in horror as they swarmed him, all fists and mouths. He screamed as they tore him apart, piece by piece, until he couldn't anymore.

Laying in Dom's bed, he and Chelsea watched TV late into the night. A few channels were taken over by broadcasts about the infection. No good news. It made the afterglow of their dinner—spaghetti with vegetables—fade fast.

"The infection has spread, its reach now extending to the edges of Montana. We have reports of mass groups of infected individuals moving in all directions across the state."

The scene cut from a pretty blonde news anchor to blurry cell footage of a crowded mall. It was dark. The sound was muted, but Dom could imagine the screaming. The smell of blood. Some figures were obviously aggressors, but since everyone was running it was hard to tell.

The blonde's "expert guest" piped up. "Debra, we’ve also noticed many social media networks are crashing due to overwhelming amounts of activity. People are quick to upload videos and photos to the internet. This is likely what’s causing widespread panic across the nation, even in uninfected regions."

“Are you saying people are still managing to get off a tweet before they die?” Her tone was short. The comment wasn’t from her teleprompter, based on the hard glare she was giving the man.

The shot cut away from the expert, who looked very haggard and very interested in telling the truth, to a close-up of the blonde. When it cut back out the man was gone. Dom felt sick. Was the man telling more than he should've and they yanked him off air? Were the news channels trying to keep things quiet?

"Still no word from the CDC or any other government officials on what course of action citizens should be taking," the lady said, her eyes glazing over as she read from the teleprompter. "We're still left with the words from the CDC earlier this week on quarantine and staying calm. Now, let's take a look at the latest exploits of our three favorite sisters."

Chelsea huffed and grabbed the remote. "St
ay calm? What a joke. Go to KOMO. Let's see what the local news is saying. Maybe they aren't pulling people off the air."

KOMO
didn’t have any perspective on the nation-wide infection. Instead they were covering the mass chaos erupting over Washington state. Widespread panic was causing major traffic problems as people decided to pick up and flee to the ocean or the mountains. Panning shots of I90, 405, and Highway 2 showed bumper to bumper backup, some people abandoning their cars to make it on foot.

The news anchor commented on how startling it was that people were already desperate and harming each other.

The next series of clips were of different chain stores in bad repair. One was even the Wal-Mart they'd been to the previous day. Dom saw the same car, now burned to a skeleton of metal. After the montage, the news anchor launched into advice people should follow to stay safe. Nothing they hadn't heard before.

Sighing again, Chelsea slung her forearm over her eyes. “I’m not sure I can watch more news.”

Dom was in agreement. Lately it felt like there was nothing else to do
but
watch the news, only it soured everyone’s mood. He started flicking channels, searching for reruns or movies to watch. At last he found a comedy focusing around retail workers. It reminded him of regular life, before the infection, before all the craziness.

“It’s going to be weird when we go back to work after all this,” Dom said. He imagined Anne and making pretentiously complicated coffee drinks. Not something to look forward to.

Chelsea started laughing. “God, I know! The last lady I helped brought a tablet in because it wouldn’t hold a charge. She didn’t bring the power cord, so I told her she needed to go home and get it.”

“I’m sure she was happy about that.” Chelsea’s work stories were always the same—most retail rage was—but she always told them with so much energy an
d hatred, Dom found it adorable and listened without complaint.

“Oh, yeah. She did come back with the cord and I plugged it in and, behold, it turned right on. She claimed it was a fluke and it wouldn’t stay charged. I said she’d need to leave it so I could recharge it and let it run a few hours.” Chelsea tapped the palm of her hand against Dom’s chest to emphasize certain words in her story. “She said, ‘No! I don’t want to wait.’ It’s like, what do you want me to do, lady? Wave a magic wand and fix it?”