Had he just killed someone?
No-no-no, the man couldn’t be dead, this couldn’t be happening, it wasn’t real it wasn’t real.
What was going on? The craziness out in the streets, in the hotel, and now this? And Jeff …
Cooper stumbled back to his friend. Jeff still hadn’t moved. He lay there, covered in that blasphemous rot.
The sounds of metal doors slamming open echoed through the room. The boiler blocked a view of the door, but the sound of shoe soles slapping against concrete told Cooper people were coming, fast.
He had to hide. There was only one place to hide. Cooper quickly and quietly slid between Jeff Brockman and the wall.
Jeff’s body felt hot, as if his fever had magnified a hundred times. Cooper slid down on his right side, pulled on Jeff so his friend’s back once again rested against the cinder-block wall.
Cooper tried not to think about the other two people under the membrane …
Rushing footsteps coming closer.
It was a s.h.i.t hiding place it wouldn’t work they were going to kill him and strangle him but it was all he had.
Through a small rip in the membrane, he could see part of the concrete floor, could see the foot and leg of the dead bald man.
Maybe it’s dark enough, maybe they won’t touch Jeff because they’re not supposed to touch NEVER supposed to touch, maybe—
Three sets of feet stepped into view: red sneakers; a pair of shiny, polished shoes; a pair of brown loafers. The heels of the polished shoes rose up — someone was kneeling over the bald man’s body.
“He’s dead,” a voice said.
“Where’s the killer?” said another.
The feet moved. Shoes pointed in new directions as people looked around the boiler room
“I don’t see anyone,” the first man said.
“Should we check the coc.o.o.ns?” said another.
“Check them for what? We don’t even know what’s happening in there. We’re not supposed to touch.”
“Never supposed to touch,” a woman said.
The first voice spoke again. “Someone who is not a friend is around here somewhere. Let’s go tell Stanton.”
Stanton? Had Cooper heard that right?
The shoes moved away, slowly, but it only took a couple of steps before they were gone from Cooper’s view.
He lay there, under his best friend and the two people packed in with his best friend, all of them covered in G.o.d knew what, trying not to make the slightest noise that would bring men who wanted to kill him, kill him because he wasn’t a friend.
Coc.o.o.n.
That’s what they called the membrane, a f.u.c.king coc.o.o.n? What did that mean?
A coc.o.o.n … a caterpillar turning into a b.u.t.terfly … was Jeff changing into something else?
Cooper closed his eyes, tried to breathe as quietly as he could. If Jeff was changing, what would he become?
And how long did Cooper have before it happened?
THE INTERNET
Murray bit into a chicken sandwich, his mouth filling with the punchy taste of aioli and Gouda. Things were going to h.e.l.l in a handbasket, but he could say one thing for the White House — someone here sure knew how to cook.
They all ate. The chief of staff had insisted, making sure everyone got what they wanted, making doubly sure that Blackmon didn’t skip her meal of a BLT and fries.
As Murray chewed, he watched the big monitor at the end of the Situation Room, the one mounted opposite the president’s seat at the head of the table. The left half of the monitor condensed the developing situation into a handful of ever-changing estimates:
IMMUNIZED: 26%
NOT IMMUNIZED: 66%
UNKNOWN: 8%
FINISHED DOSES EN ROUTE: 62,000,000
DOSES IN PRODUCTION: 71,300,000
The right half of the monitor showed a map of the United States. Each state was a shade of gray. The more doses delivered, the darker the state became.
The same map used colors to denote outbreaks. Philadelphia, Boston and several other cities glowed yellow, indicating high numbers of early-stage cases. That meant people were infected but had not yet turned violent.
Other cities glowed orange, showing areas with spiking cases of a.s.sault, murder, property damage, et cetera. Those cities — Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee, Columbus — were just beginning to tip over to the worst color of all: red.
Four red areas glowed ominously: Grand Rapids, Minneapolis, New York City and Chicago.
And at the bottom of the monitor, white letters on a black bar that stretched across the bottom of the display:
INFECTED: 530,000
CONVERTED: 78,500
DEATHS: 1,282
Those numbers were estimates, a best guess compiled from city reports, the CDC, FEMA and other organizations responsible for tracking the disaster.
Things were bad. Things would get much worse, but the important numbers were on top: 26% immunized, 133 million doses en route or in production. America was rallying to the cause. When it was said and done, this would rate as the worst disaster in American history, by far, but the tide was already turning.
Murray actually let himself believe that, right up until André Vogel rushed into the room. The normally calm, cool and collected Vogel looked anything but. He had a cell phone held against his left shoulder, using his suit jacket to mute it.
Murray put down the sandwich.
“Madam President, I have bad news,” Vogel said. “Our emba.s.sy in China was just attacked. Amba.s.sador Jane Locker is reported dead, along with seven other staffers.”
Blackmon’s mouth pressed into a tight circle. “What happened?”