Contagious

“Right.”

“Right. So he’s in shock, he’s sitting there, holding his leg like you’d hold a baby, and he says, They gotta get Flores back. You know about Tom Flores?”

“Sure, he won two Super Bowls as a coach.”

“He was a quarterback first.”

“No s.h.i.t?”

“No s.h.i.t.”

Perry was leaning forward now, his eyes wide with interest.

Dew continued. “Quarterback. First hispanic QB in the league, so of course Alvarez, El Mexicano, he thinks Flores is f.u.c.king G.o.d in a helmet and pads. The Raiders traded Flores to Buffalo, and Alvarez was p.i.s.sed. He says, Dew, they gotta get Flores back. He’s sitting there holding his severed leg, and he’s talking G.o.dd.a.m.n football.”

“So what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. I’m killing gooks left and right and I’m thinking, G.o.d help me for thinking it, but I’m thinking, if he can hold his leg, he can hold a gun, and why isn’t he laying down fire? Anyway, our line forms up on the right and left and we held, and then our F-O called in artillery.”

“F-O?”

“Forward observer.”

“Oh.”

“So the artillery comes in, practically right on top of us. I’m still shooting. Marty starts talking again, but he has to yell to be heard over the artillery. So he’s yelling, I just got this G.o.dd.a.m.n tat and they trade Flores to Buffalo. I’m not getting a Buffalo Bills tattoo, Dew. I’m just not. Artillery stops, Charlie is gone, so I decide to get the unit the h.e.l.l out of there. I turn to help Marty, and he’s dead.”

“But you said he was just talking all normal and stuff.”

Dew nodded. “He was. We could have been in my living room watching Monday Night Football. He was just dead, laying there with his foot and leg in his arms like it was a teddy bear.”

Dew stayed quiet for a moment, wondering if Perry would get it.

“I don’t get it,” Perry said.

Maybe Perry knew computers, but he had the common sense of a goat.

“How old are you?” Dew asked.

“Twenty-seven,” Perry said.

“Marty Alvarez was nineteen and three days. He’ll never have kids, either. He never even saw his twenties, man. Your life is f.u.c.ked up, I’ll give you that, but you’ve already had a decade more than Marty ever had. And he went out way more peaceful than most, hoss. I watched guys go out trying to stuff their guts back into their bellies. I watched guys crying and begging when someone stabbed them in the chest with a bayonet, over and over. So your life is f.u.c.ked up? So f.u.c.king what? At least you’re alive. You play the hand you’re dealt. You can either be a man, or not.”

Dew stood up. It took two tries. Perry didn’t say anything. Dew swayed a bit as he looked down at the big man.

“Kid, I got to know something.”

“Okay,” Perry said.

“When you knocked out Baum and Milner, you didn’t take their guns.

Why?”

“I didn’t need them.”

“Bulls.h.i.t,” Dew said. “You were going in there to kill those infected people. As far as you knew, they were dues-paying members of the NRA. Maybe you wouldn’t mind getting killed, but I know your kind—the game was on, and you wanted to stop a gate from opening up. You didn’t want to lose. Am I right?”

Perry looked at the floor, blond hair hanging. “I want to stop them more than anything,” he said quietly. “They’ve taken so much from me, but I . . . at least I can still win. If they can’t do what they were sent to do, junk or no junk, well then, guess what? I win. f.u.c.k them, I win.”

Dew nodded. “I know what you’re saying. I want to stop these little f.u.c.kers like you have no idea. But you didn’t take the gun, which means you left a way for them to beat you. Why? ”

Perry sat still and quiet. Dew just waited. Sometimes you get more done with silence than with all the words in the world.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” Perry said.

“I already think you’re more bats.h.i.t than a padded room full of Charlie Mansons. So out with it.”

“I . . . I still hear Bill.”

Dew hadn’t expected that. This was one messed-up camper.

“You mean, like you heard your dad? Back when you were infected?”

Perry nodded. “Yeah, kind of like that. Bill keeps telling me to shoot myself.”

“Shoot yourself.”

“Uh-huh. So I don’t want to pick up a gun, ’cause . . . ’cause maybe I want to listen to him.”

“If you really want to kill yourself, you don’t need a gun.”

Perry looked up. “Yeah, but the other ways, they take at least a little preparation. Some time to think. Maybe you come to your senses. But a gun? You go from thinking about it to pointing it, pulling the trigger in what, like two seconds?”

Dew nodded. He’d planned on doing just that if he found strange, itchy lumps on his own skin. Wasn’t eating a bullet better than enduring Perry’s ordeal?

“Yeah,” Dew said. “Two seconds, if even that.”

“So that’s why I didn’t touch their guns.”

He was no psychologist, but even so drunk he could barely stand, Dew Phillips still had all the common sense his mama had given him. Perry had suicidal thoughts but was cognizant enough to stay away from something that could instantly make those thoughts a reality.

“Dawsey, have you ever shot a gun?”

Perry shook his head.

“Get some sleep. Your life is what it is. Tomorrow we’re going to stop letting you feel sorry for yourself.”

THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON CRAWLERS

Chelsea Jewell woke up. She wiped a mist of sweat from her face, then got out of bed. She grabbed her pillow and dragged the comforter off the mattress.

Mommy might come in when she slept. She might come in and punish her. Chelsea had to hide.

She opened the closet’s folding doors and pulled out all of her shoes. She put those under the bed, then lugged her pillow and blanket inside. She shut the closet door, then lay down, head on the pillow, body on top of the comforter, and fell asleep even before she could cover up.