Contagious

“Yes sir,” Corporal Cope said. He moved to the radio.

Ogden turned to Climer. “How many of us are there now?”

“Just us four, including you, sir.”

Ogden nodded and checked his watch. It would take about an hour to restrain Third and Fourth platoons and show them G.o.d’s love. Add four to seven hours for the gestation period, and he’d have the first sixty men fully converted a little after noon.

His DOMREC men owned the airport. They could control all movement in and out. g.a.y.l.o.r.d was still evacuated—the only problems he might face would come from the police, emergency workers, or the media. Reporters were undoubtedly outside the checkpoints, waiting to come in with lights blazing and cameras rolling. He’d have to take his men out at night, using the same back roads they’d guarded since yesterday.

“Corporal Cope.”

“Colonel?”

“Start planning logistics,” Ogden said. “At twenty-three hundred hours, I’m taking Platoons Three and Four to Detroit. Climer, you make sure Platoons One and Two complete the conversion process. By tomorrow they need to be ready to head to Detroit when I call them.”

“Yes sir,” Climer said.

“That leaves Whiskey Company,” Cope said. “What about them, sir?”

The 120 fighting men of Whiskey Company. A wrinkle in his plans. He could convert them, but that would take more time, add risk. Might be best to just avoid them. Leaving them at the g.a.y.l.o.r.d airport, even after he moved all of X-Ray Company to Detroit, would maintain appearances for Murray and the g.a.y.l.o.r.d police. Not for long, of course, but now everything was about buying a few hours of discretion here and there.

“Tell Captain Lodge that Whiskey Company is to immediately take over all roadblock work and interaction with law enforcement,” Ogden said. “Whiskey Company is not to interact with anyone from X-Ray Company. Tell Captain Lodge about our detainment drills, and that I need to test Whiskey Company’s ability to operate solo. He and Nails can handle things just fine. That will buy about a day, maybe two, before anyone notices that I’m gone.”

“Yes sir.”

“Come to think of it, Cope, you’d better stay here with Climer,” Ogden said. “Everyone knows your voice, knows you deliver my orders. Who can come with me and operate as my communications man?”

“The most skilled would be Corporal Kinney Johnson, sir,” Cope said. “But to be honest, he’s not too bright.”

“He’ll have to do,” Ogden said. “Make sure he’s in the next batch to be converted. Now get cracking.”

Ogden leaned over the table, staring at the map of Michigan. He could create only so many protectors in the next forty-six hours, and that number paled in comparison to the forces he would face.

Despite the odds, he had to find a way to win. It would take strategy. Grand strategy.

The kind that would put you in the history books forever.

DADDY IS SO SILLY

The building was perfect.

Rusted, once-white metal beams held up a peaked ceiling way above. There were holes in that ceiling. Through them Chelsea could see little patches of early-morning sky, tiny stars still flickering their fading light. She could see the heavens. It was such a long building—her Mickey Mouse watch said it took her thirty seconds to run from one end of the trash-strewn floor to the other. On one side of the building, a second deck and even a third deck looked out over a long, open, central area. There was lots of graffiti. Some naughty words, too. If anyone else came in to paint bad words, Chelsea would have Mr. Jenkins take care of them.

They’d found a big entrance in the back. Mr. Jenkins called it a loading dock. Up above was a metal roll-up door, stuck three-quarters of the way open. Mr. Jenkins said it worked exactly like a roll of paper towels, that people used to just pull it down, but it was rusty and broken. Grafitti-covered plywood blocked the rest of the entrance. Mr. Jenkins had to drive the Winnebago right into the plywood, and the whole wall fell in like one of those drawbridges like in the princess stories. He drove over it, cracking the wood in many places, but then he and Daddy and Old Sam Collins and Mr. Korves were able to put it back up again.

The Winnebago was inside, safely out of sight. Which was good, because right about the time they put that plywood back, Chelsea sensed that the dollies were almost ready to come out and play.

Chelsea made Mr. Jenkins put all the dolly daddies side by side in front of the Winnebago. The rising sun was already spreading a little light into the building through the small holes in the roof, but she wanted the daddies in the headlights so she could see everything. Their heads were closest to the Winnebago, all their tootsies pointed away. Kind of looked like nap time at summer camp.

Mr. Jenkins tied them up.

He tied up Daddy, Mr. LaFrinere, Mr. Gaines, Old Sam Collins and Danny Korves.

Mommy took one of Mr. Jenkins’s knives and cut off their clothes.

They all shivered a lot. A little bit of snow had blown into the building, fine white powder drifted up against fallen boards and broken bricks. Every now and then, a gust of wind found a way through the walls and the boarded-up windows, swirling the powder in slow arcs.

Then the dolly daddies all started screaming. That was annoying. Chelsea told Mommy to stuff their mouths with some of the cut-up clothing. That helped.

Chelsea sat down and watched.

They were all tied up, but they still kicked and thrashed around. Everyone except Daddy. Daddy was looking at Chelsea. His eyes seemed very sad. He was trying to say something. He wasn’t screaming like the others, even though the dollies on his arm were starting to bounce in and out.

Chelsea stood and walked over to him. She pulled the piece of T-shirt out of his mouth.

“Chelsea, honey,” Daddy said. It was hard to understand his words because he was breathing so hard. “Please, baby girl, make . . . make them stop.”