Contagious

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” She hugged him back. She couldn’t believe how good it was to see him.

Dew scooted to the corner, peeked around, then ducked back.

“Clarence said you saw Ogden?”

“And Chelsea Jewell,” Margaret said.

Perry’s smile faded. A look of hatred filled his eyes. Margaret instantly thought of the dead, angry stares of the infected victims she’d had on her autopsy table.

“And hostages,” Clarence said. “About fifteen of them. And at least three gunmen armed with body armor, M4s, sidearms and grenades. There could be more already inside.”

Dew looked Clarence up and down. “Human condom, eh?”

Clarence nodded at Margaret. “Blame her.”

“h.e.l.l, I wish I had one right about now,” Dew said. “Margaret, what happened with Sanchez? You figure this thing out yet?”

The sensation of relief vanished, replaced once again by feelings of failure.

“No, I didn’t,” she said. “Try not to get infected, because there’s still no cure.”

Dew and Perry nodded.

“How about Gitsh and Marcus?” Dew asked. “Doctor Dan?”

Clarence shook his head.

“So we’ve got losses,” Dew said. “Let’s make them count. Clarence, take Margaret and go to the football field at Martin Luther King High School, about a mile up Jefferson, you can’t miss it. Murray dropped a Margo-Mobile there to set up an infection triage. There are also two Ospreys on the ground. If things turn dicey, you get her out of here.”

“I’m standing right here, Dew,” Margaret said. “Clarence isn’t my keeper.”

“Yes he is,” Dew said. “And he’s getting you out.”

“Have some of your men take her,” Clarence sad. “I’m staying to finish this.”

Why couldn’t Clarence just shut up and leave? Hadn’t he done his job? Hadn’t they sacrificed enough? She wanted out, and she wanted him with her.

“Otto, you will get the f.u.c.k out of here,” Dew said. “Your mission is to protect Margaret, and I want her gone.”

Clarence shook his head. “But Dew—”

“Shut your broken-toothed mouth. You’ve got your orders. Do you mind if we go ahead and save the f.u.c.king world? Perry, you go with them.”

Perry Dawsey actually laughed. A dark laugh, something he might have let slip back in a kitchen filled with three dead bodies.

“f.u.c.k you, Dewie,” he said. “Chelsea and I need to talk.”

Dew turned to look at Perry, tilted his head up to make eye contact. Perry’s filthy blond hair hung in front of a face smeared with grime and reddish dust.

“You’ll go now, Dawsey, and that’s an order.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, old man?” Perry said. “I’m not a soldier, and your orders don’t mean d.i.c.k to me. I’m getting that girl. The only way you can stop me is to shoot me, and this time I’ll shoot back. With your own gun.”

Perry raised his eyebrows and lifted a pistol, not pointing it at Dew, more of a show-and-tell gesture.

“Sir!” A big black man, almost as big as Perry, ran up to Dew. “Sir, someone is sticking a white flag out the front door.”

“Son of a b.i.t.c.h,” Dew said. “Let’s see if we can close this out. Nails, have half your men target the second-floor windows, the other half the ground floor. I don’t want to kill any hostages, but I’m not in the mood to be shot at, either.”

“Got it,” Nails said, then started barking orders. Margaret had never heard a human being that loud.

Dew looked at Perry again. “I suppose if I tell you to stay here, you’ll just ignore me?”

Perry nodded.

Dew sighed. “Fine, f.u.c.k it. Let’s go.”

Perry’s slow breaths steamed in the cold air, carried away by the breeze coming off the river. The helmet felt cold on his head, but his flak jacket trapped his body heat and made him sweat despite the freezing temperature. He gripped the .45 tightly and followed Dew around the corner. Dew carried an M4, barrel angled toward the ground. Jets still screamed overhead, their engine roars echoing across the cityscape. Far up ahead, the RenCen continued to burn like a tall, smoldering black torch, a column of greasy smoke angling up and trailing across downtown Detroit. Helicopters hovered all over the place, probably waiting for more of Ogden’s men to show themselves.

Perry and Dew walked toward the building on the corner. The front door was open just a little, enough room for a stick with a white shirt tied to it to wave back and forth.

He saw Whiskey Company men all over the place, guns trained on the open door and the windows. If someone opened fire from inside the building, an instant bloodbath would ensue.

Dew stopped twenty feet in front of the door. Perry did the same, a step behind Dew, a step to his left.

“We’re listening,” Dew said.

The door opened, and Chelsea Jewell walked out, carrying the flag.

Had it been anyone else, a soldier, a grown-up, some twitchy finger might have opened fire, white flag or no. But the image of a seven-year-old girl with beautiful blond curls and an innocent face instantly made fingers ease off triggers, if only a little.

To anyone else she looked innocent, but Perry saw deeper. He saw a nightmare, something dark and self-serving, something happy to destroy anything that didn’t give her what she wanted. He didn’t care what he had to do, how far he had to go—Chelsea Jewell would never leave this place alive.

She walked ten feet from the door, far enough to stand in the debris-strewn, potholed street.

Perry stepped forward. Time to end this. A hand on his chest—Dew pushing him back. Perry wanted to shoot her, but he would back Dew’s play.

“We wanna negotiate,” Chelsea said. “My mommy needs help.”

“Tell all your men to throw out their weapons,” Dew shouted, loud enough so the men in the building could hear him.