Contagious

“I understand that,” Vanessa said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Your bloodhound picked up the scent. Now send in professional soldiers, not Phillips and his pet psycho.”

Donald cleared his throat. “Vanessa, Ogden’s men are already deployed. I don’t think Murray has a choice here.”

She shot Donald a glare that spoke volumes. “Ogden has four hundred eighty men in the DOMREC,” she said, using the military acronym for Domestic Reaction Battalion. “Four companies of a hundred twenty men each. Ogden is going in with X-Ray Company and he’s got Whiskey Company on reserve there, right?”

Donald nodded.

“That leaves Companies Yankee and Zulu on the ground at Fort Bragg,” Vanessa said. “So why the h.e.l.l aren’t we using them instead of Dawsey and Phillips?”

“We need to be subtle,” Murray said. “Glidden is a town, not the deep woods. If we drop two companies on Main Street, USA, that might attract a little attention.”

“And a rampaging psychopath won’t?” she said.

“That’s enough,” Gutierrez said. “Murray, I’m sure you took steps to keep Dawsey in check, am I correct?”

“Yes, Mister President,” Murray said. “We have two seasoned agents following Dawsey at all times. Dawsey will locate the hosts, then these men will move in, take Dawsey down if necessary and secure the hosts.”

General Cooper knocked twice on the table. “This is all good and fine, but we have an attack to monitor here,” he said in a voice so gruff it almost sounded like a caricature of how a marine general should talk. “Not to speak out of turn, Mister President, but there’s information we need to share so you know what you’re seeing when the attack begins.”

Gutierrez nodded. “Thank you, General Cooper. Murray, before we focus on Ogden’s attack, I want to make something clear. We know that this is a crisis situation and Americans may get hurt, but we don’t need them getting hurt by the people who are supposed to be solving the problem. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Murray said. “I do.”

Murray did understand the need to control Dawsey—he just hoped Dew Phillips understood it as well. Vanessa Colburn wasn’t playing around. She clearly wanted Murray gone. And as much as he disliked that woman, she was right about one thing . . .

That kid was a f.u.c.king psycho.

YOU SHOULDN’T HIT YOUR KIDS

Dew Phillips ran a red light at the intersection of Grant and Broadway. He’d even put the port-a-bubble on top of his Lincoln, its circling light playing off the sheets of pouring rain. f.u.c.k secrecy. He had two men down. That murdering kid was going after hosts again.

Dew wondered if any of the infected would be alive by the time Margaret arrived.

Thadeus McMillian Sr. sat at his kitchen table, bouncing his five-year-old son, Stephen, on his knee. Stephen wore his favorite fuzzy yellow pajama bottoms and a little Milwaukee Bucks T-shirt. Looked so d.a.m.n cute. Stephen was the good child. Tad Jr.? Not a good child. Sara? Not a good child.

Thadeus pushed the thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about his daughter.

A dozen empty beer bottles stood on the table, leaving wet ring-stains on the map spread across the table’s surface. There were more beer bottles on the floor, along with a half-empty fifth of gin. He didn’t drink gin. His wife, Jenny, guzzled the stuff.

The f.u.c.king alcoholic b.i.t.c.h.

She’d been a three-martini-a-day girl up until Junior started acting up. Since then she’d skipped the martini gla.s.ses altogether and started pouring gin right into her favorite h.e.l.lo Kitty coffee cup. Every time she took a sip, that stupid cartoon cat seemed to stare at him.

Limping along on one crutch, Jenny hobbled into the kitchen. She couldn’t put weight on the foot, which was understandable if you saw the thing (and Thad had no desire to ever see it again). Jenny’s insistence on keeping Ginny Kitty in hand at all times complicated the crutch-walk even more.

She stopped just past the open doorway between the kitchen and the stairway that led up to the kids’ rooms.

She stared at him. So did that f.u.c.king cat.

“What are we gonna do about that boy of yours?” she asked.

Thadeus shrugged. “Dunno.”

“He’s a bad influence on Stephen and Sammy,” she said. “I don’t know why you let him run wild.”

“Look, I grounded him,” Thadeus said. “What else can we do?”

“You can discipline him,” she said. Thadeus looked away, ashamed. He had disciplined the boy . . . maybe a little too much. He’d hit his own son. Right in the face. Not slapped, but punched. How could he do that to his own flesh and blood? And yet the boy was acting so crazy. Something had to be done.

“Thadeus,” Jenny said, “we have to go, you know we do. They’re almost done, and we haven’t even left yet. We can’t take Junior, and we can’t leave him behind, either.”

He nodded slowly. Maybe Jenny was right. For fourteen years, ever since their first date, he’d been able to count on her for sound advice. Maybe she could see the obvious when he couldn’t, he didn’t know. Maybe she just cared for him enough to give tough love.

He hung his head, stared absently at the back of little Stephen’s head. Junior had always been his favorite. You weren’t supposed to have a favorite child, he knew, yet he couldn’t change the fact that Junior lit up his heart just a little more than the others. Maybe that was why he’d been so lenient.

“All right, Jenny,” Thadeus said. “Get him in here.”

Jenny leaned back so she could shout up the steps to the second floor.

“Junior! Come into the kitchen! Your father and I want to talk to you.”

She leaned forward again, resting heavily on her crutch. They heard Tad’s bedroom door open. It always squeaked. Thadeus kept meaning to oil the hinges, but hadn’t gotten around to it.