Contagious

Chelsea liked this building. She liked it a lot.

“What about this place, Mister Jenkins?”

“Looks like no one’s here,” he said. “It’s all boarded up. Could be some b.u.ms inside, but if so, we can take care of them.”

“Is there . . .” Chelsea searched for the words that Chauncey had given her. “Is there a lot of concrete? Is there . . . rebar? Metal? Those things will make it hard to see us from s.p.a.ce.”

“Oh sure,” Mr. Jenkins said. “There will be lots of that.”

“Good,” Chelsea said. “I think the dollies will like it here. Let’s go inside and look.”

“Okay,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Let’s drive around the building and look for a door we can open up. We need to pull the Winnebago inside, or the police will see it in the morning.”

The Winnebago turned right on Orleans, and its headlights lit a man in the middle of the street. He was dressed in only a T-shirt and jeans, shivering like mad. Even in the dim headlights, they could see that his fingers were swollen and raw. Behind the man they saw the rear of a squat, jet-black motorcycle caked with frozen sludge, dirt and even some ice.

“Holy s.h.i.t,” Mr. Jenkins said. “It’s freezing outside. That guy was riding a Harley? Is that an Ohio plate on that thing? Look at his f.u.c.king fingers.”

“Language,” Chelsea said.

“Sorry, Chelsea,” Mr. Jenkins said.

She reached out. The man’s name was Danny Korves. He had lived in a town called Parkersburgh. That was a long ways away, and he was cold to the point where he would soon die.

“Mister Jenkins,” Chelsea said, “go get that man and bring him inside. We need to warm him up.”

She didn’t want Mr. Korves to be cold.

After all, if he felt cold, so would the nine dollies growing inside him.

Now that she had enough of them, she knew how long it would take to build the gate. Construction would begin almost as soon as the dollies hatched.

And that moment was only a few hours away, sometime around dawn.

LEAD FROM THE FRONT

Agony. Heat. Brutal, shooting pain, his whole body on fire, his brain on fire.

Was he in h.e.l.l? Charlie Ogden had caused enough death to qualify. Both the enemy and his own men. How many enemy soldiers? His best guess was over a thousand—the kill ratio in Somalia and Iraq had been so ridiculously high that it was hard to keep track.

The exact number didn’t matter, did it? Thou shalt not kill. One death was the price of admission to h.e.l.l; everything else was just overachieving.

A snippet of a picture flashed through his mind. Something black, wiggling. A snake? A centipede?

The heat in his brain grew even higher, which was impossible, because it couldn’t get any higher. Ogden heard himself screaming, or at least trying to, but something in his mouth m.u.f.fled his sounds.

The picture again. Not a snake . . . a tentacle.

A hatchling.

Were they there to kill him? To take revenge?

h.e.l.lo . . .

A voice. More pictures, more images. Hatchlings. Hundreds of them, building something, making something.

Something beautiful. Something . . . holy.

The heat went yet higher. Ogden felt his brain tearing. AC/DC had once sung that “h.e.l.l ain’t a bad place to be,” yet Ogden knew that was some crazy s.h.i.t, because he would have done anything to escape this endless agony.

Can you hear me?

The voice. The voice of an angel coming for him. The heat seemed to drop. Just a little, but even that tiny bit felt like a miracle.

Ogden made a noise that was supposed to be a yes, but through the gag it sounded like yay!

Hands touching his head, his hot head. The gag lifting. Fresh breath in his lungs. A foul taste on his thick, sore tongue.

Can you hear me?

“Yes,” Ogden whispered. Was the voice making the heat fade away? He loved that voice.

Good. We need you.

Ogden felt hands lifting him, sitting him in a chair. He looked around. There was Corporal Cope, beaming with love. There was Nurse Brad, drooling, smiling, a saggy-lidded socket where an eye used to be. There was Dustin Climer, grinning, nodding as if he and Ogden shared a secret. They did share a secret, the best secret the world had ever known.

Ogden took a deep breath, trying to handle the new emotions ripping through his soul. “What do you need me to do?”

What you were born to do. Protect the innocent.

Ogden nodded. Protect the innocent. He’d done that his whole life.

We need your men in Deeeee-troit, the voice said. You must hurry, but be careful. The devil will try to stop you. Stop you so he can get to me.

Ogden shook his head. Cope and Climer shook theirs as well.

“They won’t get you,” Charlie said. “I won’t let them.”

Good. Bring your weapons, bring your men.

“But . . . the men . . . they don’t all feel like this. I think some won’t see.”

Then you must show them love. Hurry, please hurry.

The voice seemed to wash away on a mental wind. It faded, but the love did not. Charlie Ogden knew what he had to do. He looked at Dustin Climer. “How long did it take for me to see the light?”

Climer checked his wrist.w.a.tch. “You went under at twenty-one-thirty five, sir. It’s oh-four-thirty, so about seven hours. It only took Corporal Cope four hours to convert. Maybe because he’s younger, sir.”

Ogden knew. He knew exactly when the gate would open. Chelsea had pushed that information into his head, a ticking clock to the beginning of heaven. He had a little over fifty-two hours to make it all happen.

“Corporal Cope,” Ogden said. “Order all troops confined to barracks. Order First Platoon to prevent access to or egress from camp. No one gets in or out, not even a four-star general. Order Second Platoon to conduct detainment drills. They are to immobilize all men in Third and Fourth platoons. Tie them to their bunks, hands and feet. Inform all squad leaders from Third and Fourth platoons to cooperate without hesitation, that I’m evaluating the ability to restrain large numbers of able-bodied individuals. After this is complete, First Platoon is to return to their barracks and wait for further orders.”