Contagious

LEAD FROM THE FRONT

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

Was he in hell? 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 hell; 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 muffled his sounds.

The picture again. Not a snake… a tentacle.

A hatchling.

Were they there to kill him? To take revenge?

Hello…

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 “hell ain’t a bad place to be,” yet Ogden knew that was some crazy shit, 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 wristwatch. “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.”

“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 God’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. Gaylord 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 Gaylord airport, even after he moved all of X-Ray Company to Detroit, would maintain appearances for Murray and the Gaylord 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.”

Chelsea laughed. “Oh Daddy! You’re so funny.”

“No, honey, I’m… I’m not joking with you.”

The triangles bounced out farther, making interesting moving shadows on the far wall. Daddy’s face scrunched shut. He ground his teeth and let out a little noise.

“It will all be over soon, Daddy.”

His eyes opened again. They blinked so fast. He was breathing like he’d just come back from a run.

“Chelsea… you have power over these things. You can make them stop… you can… shut them down.”

One of Old Sam Collins’s hatchlings popped free. It arced through the air, lit up by the headlights. How pretty!

The muffled screams got louder.

“Chelsea!” Daddy yelled. “I’m not… not kidding around. You stop them or you are in big trouble.” Tears leaked from his eyes. Snot bubbled from his nose. He started to kick. The triangles on his arm were coming out really far now.

“Daddy, God wants them to come out. Why would I stop them?”

“Because I’m going to die, you little bitch!” Daddy’s chest heaved. His eyes opened and shut, opened and shut. “Please, Chelsea! Oh my God it hurts! They’re screaming in my head. Please! Make it stop.”

One of Daddy’s hatchlings popped free. Daddy screamed really loud. He was just confused, that’s all. Now he got to go to heaven. Anyone who really believed in heaven would be happy to die. Why, the longer they lived, the more chances they might do something bad, then wind up in hell. She didn’t understand why people prayed to God to stay alive. It just didn’t make any sense.

He drew a big breath to scream again, and Chelsea stuffed the T-shirt back into his mouth.

“I love you, Daddy,” she said. “Say hello to Jesus for me.”

Daddy’s screams stopped a few seconds later.

Chelsea walked around, picking up the little hatchlings and taking them inside the Winnebago. She wanted to make sure they were safe and warm.

THE DOLLY MAMA

Bernadette screamed so hard that flecks of blood flew out of her mouth. The containment-cell walls would have muffled most of the sound, but Margaret had insisted that the room’s microphones pump the audio throughout the comm system.

If the men were going to let Bernadette Smith die, Margaret would make sure they heard every last second of it.

Dew was there. So was Clarence. Daniel Chapman was there as well, holding a handheld high-def camera. The two fixed cameras built into the containment cell would catch everything, but Dan had his in case they needed specific shots. Dew had asked Perry to come; Perry hadn’t shown.

Only an hour earlier, Perry had told Margaret what to expect. She wasn’t surprised he’d taken a pass.

“Nine thirty-seven A.M.,” Margaret said. “The triangles are beginning to move.”

She watched, horrified, as the triangles, now inch-high pyramids, started to bounce up and down under Bernadette’s skin.

“Sweet Jesus,” Dew said.

“Don’t you look away,” Margaret hissed.

Somehow, Bernadette found the energy to scream even louder.

The triangles bounced out farther, stretching her skin, tearing it. Little jets of blood shot out from the edges.

“Please help me! Make it stop! Make them stop shouting in my head!”

“Doctor Chapman,” Margaret said, “put that camera down and sedate that woman.”

“Do not do that, Chapman,” Dew said. “It could damage the triangles.”

Margaret turned to look at Dew. Her anguished soul longed for any excuse to look away from Bernadette, and this one fit the bill.

“Dew, you fucking bastard. We’re torturing that woman!”

“I’m not going to take a chance your potions will kill the hatchlings,” Dew said. “This will be over soon.” Even as he spoke, he stared unflinching at the dying woman.

“Nine forty-one A.M.,” Dan said. “Patient is going into V-tach.”

Those words made Margaret snap around to look in the cell, made her instinctively take a step forward before she remembered that she wasn’t allowed to save the patient.

But Margaret could take away her pain.

Everyone in the trailer wore a hazmat suit—sealed, airtight, protected. Margaret moved to the containment cell’s door and started punching buttons on the touch screen.

First the # sign, then 5, then 4, then 5, then—

Strong hands grabbed her wrists and pulled her away.

Clarence’s hands.

“Margaret, stop it!”

She struggled against him, but it was useless. He was too strong.

“Let me go, you monster!” How could she have been so wrong about him?

Dew leaned forward to look at the touch screen, then at Dan. “What was she doing?”

Dan looked away.

“Dan,” Dew said. “Answer me, now.”

“She was trying to do an emergency decontamination,” Dan said. “If she hits another five, every decontam nozzle in both trailers starts spraying. It would kill everything not wearing a hazmat suit, including the patient.”

Dew turned to look at Margaret. “You spell out the word kill to do that? Cute. Otto, don’t let her go. We have to finish this.”

Dew turned back to the horror show inside the containment cell. Margaret did the same—she didn’t want to watch, but she had to.

The triangles bounced out almost a foot before their tails and Bernadette’s ravaged skin pulled them back. The one on her chest jumped up and down like the heart of a cartoon boy who’s just seen the cartoon girl of his dreams.

The one on her hip tore free first, shooting across the tiny room to hit the wall. Barely an inch high, it wiggled on the floor, black tentacles writhing in a soupy combination of human blood and purple slime.

Her arm went next. The hatchling severed the artery as it launched free, spraying blood all over the clear containment-cell wall. The heartbeat monitor beeped out an erratic, panicked pace without rhythm.

The chest triangle finally broke its fleshy tether, shooting upward on a geyser of blood that splashed against the ceiling.

Margaret heard the droning monotone of the EKG machine sounding out a flatline.

“Shut that fucking thing off,” Dew said.

Dan lowered the camera and quickly punched a button on the panel. The flatline sound vanished, leaving only silence.

Margaret put her gloved hands against the transparent wall. Blood drops trickled down the inside of the glass, rolling toward the floor. They left little see-through streaks of red.

The three hatchlings tried to stand on weak tentacle-legs. They managed a few wobbly steps, filling the air with strange clicking sounds. Gradually they slowed. Their black, vertical eyes blinked slower and slower, heavy-lidded, sleepy, until they closed and the little creatures stopped moving.

Margaret rested her helmeted head against the glass. She checked the red clock on the far wall.

“Time of death, nine forty-four A.M.,” she said weakly. “I hope it was worth it, Dew. I really hope it’s worth it.”

Dew still hadn’t moved. He stared into the cell, stared at the body. “It’s not, Margaret. It never is.”

EYES ON THE PRIZE

It was only a matter of time now.

The Orbital had long since mapped all human satellites capable of detecting its presence. It had also identified a few ground-based observatories that might be able to see it. In all, the Orbital tracked eleven devices that could spot it, if only they looked in the right direction.

And now five of them were.

One was unfortunate, but not a cause for concern. Just random chance. Two was pushing the boundaries of coincidence and meant it had possibly been spotted. As the day progressed, the Orbital saw a third, then a fourth, then a fifth device point its way.

There was no question: the humans knew.

It was only a matter of time before they attacked. The probability tables rated this at 100 percent. The same tables predicted a 74 percent chance that the first attack would destroy the Orbital.

It had some defenses, but it was small and designed for stealth and reliability, not combat. It could not fight an entire world.

The Orbital had prepared Chelsea as best it could. It would probably be up to her to finish the doorway. Chance of success? Incalculable—the Orbital simply did not have enough data.

The Orbital ran through the tables and arrived at the final entry in its extensive decision tree. If a planet could resist colonization, detect the Orbital and attack it, then that planet qualified as a long-term threat.

A threat that had to be eliminated.

The Orbital began to modify its final probe.

PEEKABOO, WE SEE YOU

Gutierrez walked into the smaller Situation Room like a suit-wearing cage fighter rushing to the ring, aggressive and excited to get it on. Tom Maskill and Vanessa Colburn trailed in his wake, the boxer’s entourage shining with their own intense auras.

Ah, Murray thought, the energy of youth.

Gutierrez, Maskill and Colburn slid into their seats. Donald Martin and all the Joint Chiefs were already present. A full house once again.

Murray was thrilled that Vanessa had made it—he wanted her to see this.

“Okay, Murray,” Gutierrez said. “I just cut short a meeting with the Russian ambassador about this Finland crisis to hear your urgent news, so let’s go.”

“Mister President,” Murray said, “Montoya’s weather theory panned out. We think we’ve located the source of the infection.”

Murray called up a map of the Midwest on the Situation Room’s big screen.

“This is the location of the first construct,” he said. A red dot appeared at Wahjamega, Michigan. “These blue dots represent approximate locations of the hosts seven days before we attacked that construct, and the green lines represent wind direction.”

Gutierrez studied the map briefly, then nodded. “And here is the same information for the hosts associated with Mather, South Bloomingville, Glidden and Gaylord, Michigan.” As Murray spoke each city’s name, he added a yellow dot to the map. “This information provided enough data to triangulate a specific search zone.”

Murray tapped some more keys. The map zoomed in on a grid that included southwest Michigan, northwest Ohio and northeast Indiana. “But that’s still a huge area,” Gutierrez said.

“Yes sir,” Murray said. “But it helped us focus the hunt. It took our image-processing computers three days to identify visual anomalies, but by doing so, we found this…”

Murray clicked the keys again. The map vanished, replaced by a grainy photo of what looked like a translucent, teardrop-shaped rock pointed at both ends.

All of them, including Vanessa, sat back in their chairs. Murray felt like a conductor reaching the emotional apex of a symphony. The room filled with excitement and relief. They finally had a target; they could finally hit back.

“Son of a bitch,” Gutierrez said.

“NASA is convinced it’s artificial,” Murray said. “It’s very small, about the size of a beer keg.”

“How could we not have seen this?”

“There’s a lot here we don’t understand, sir,” Murray said. “The thing is stationary, hovering forty miles above South Bend, Indiana. The object seems to bend light around it—which makes it basically invisible, but the image analysts identified a visual fluctuation. They had to write a program that combined images from five different sources, then create this computer-generated model.”

“So this isn’t a real picture?”

“No sir,” Murray said. “They explained it to me with an analogy. Imagine a contact lens dropped in a swimming pool. It’s not actually invisible, but if you don’t know the contact lens is there, you’re never going to see it. If I tell you to look in one corner at the shallow end, forget the rest of the pool, look for something that might stand out just a little, and you had a dozen people helping you, eventually you’d see the lens and figure out what it is. NASA doesn’t know how the thing can just hover there. It doesn’t drift. It should take a ton of energy to keep something stationary like that, yet it doesn’t give off an energy signature. That’s supposed to be impossible.”

“How impossible?”

“As in contrary-to-the-laws-of-physics impossible,” Murray said. “But it’s there all the same.”

Gutierrez stared at the fuzzy double teardrop up on the screen. “Are there more of these objects?”

“Now that they know exactly what anomalies to look for, they’re doing global searches. This object appears to be the only one of its kind.”

“Why us?” Gutierrez asked. “Why not Russia? Or China? What does NASA say about that?”

“They think it was just bad luck, Mister President. If this really is an alien craft, it probably locked in over the first landmass it found. We’ll probably never know, unless you want to try to communicate with it.”

“Communicate?” Gutierrez laughed. “It’s already communicated. Its message is loud and clear. This is amazing. Murray, your team is just amazing. And no, I don’t want to try to communicate with this thing. I want to blow it out of the goddamn sky.”

“We thought you might choose that option,” Murray said. “General Monroe?”

Murray sat as the air force general rose to discuss his attack plan. Murray looked across the table, and saw that Vanessa was watching him, not the screen. She wore her normally cold expression, but Murray was learning how to read her. On her best day, she couldn’t hope to ever match the show he had just put on, and she knew it. Did the corners of her mouth reveal just a touch of envy?

He turned his attention back to the screen and watched General Monroe outline his strategy.

GENERAL CHARLIE OGDEN

No point in calling himself a colonel anymore. As Chelsea’s top military leader, now he was truly a general. He could promote Cope while he was at it, but why bother? Corporal Cope had such a nice ring to it.

“What’s the latest from Whiskey Company, Corporal?”

“Captain Lodge reports zero traffic at all checkpoints,” Cope said. “He suspects that your readiness drill is actually a way for you to get X-Ray Company in heated tents while his men stand out in the cold. Sergeant Major Nealson also called, wanted me to tell him on the sly if you had an op planned and if he could get in on it.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him this was just a boring drill, sir,” Cope said. “And I took the liberty of suggesting that if he snooped around for more information, you’d have him on the first transfer back to Fort Bragg.”

Ogden smiled. Cope showed initiative, and Ogden needed that kind of person around. Better a clever corporal than a stupid lieutenant.

“Pack up my things, Corporal. I’ll be leaving tonight.”

Cope moved off to pack Ogden’s clothes and effects.

General Charlie Ogden couldn’t wait for nightfall. He couldn’t wait to drive down to Detroit, to actually meet Chelsea. But it was only 1430, and he couldn’t make the sun move faster across the sky. He needed the time to plan, anyway.

Forty-six hours to go.

If the gate opened up undetected, everything would work out fine. General Ogden’s job, however, was to assume that the gate would not go undetected.

The primary threat remained the Division Ready Force from the Eighty-second Airborne. Six hundred soldiers probably eight hours away from parachuting in on top of any trouble spot. He had at best 120 men—no matter what strategy he created, he couldn’t hold out for long against five-to-one odds.

That meant he had to make sure any battle ended before the DRF could fully respond. An eight-hour window.

Far inside that eight-hour window, however, sat the other two DOM-REC companies waiting at Fort Bragg. Two hundred and forty men he’d led himself. If alerted, they could deploy in Detroit potentially within two hours. How could he keep them out of the game entirely?

And even that didn’t account for the forces already in the area—Detroit police, cops from surrounding suburbs, SWAT teams and Michigan State Police. Not as heavily armed, not as well trained, but a lot of guns was still a lot of guns. He’d also have to find a way to tie up all of those.

If conflict came, Ogden would have no air support. His men would face Apaches, Ospreys, F-15s and probably even a squadron of A-10 tank-killer fighters stationed at the Selfridge Air National Guard Base thirty minutes north of Detroit.

So that was the scenario. Do everything possible to keep things quiet, to keep a fight from breaking out. If a fight did break out, he had to choose the battlefield, delay the troops from Fort Bragg, tie up the Detroit police, keep the gate hidden from air support and make sure the gate was wide open and pumping in angels well inside of the eight-hour DRF window.

A general’s stars certainly didn’t come easy.

“Corporal Cope,” Ogden said, “when you’re finished packing, get on the line with the companies at Fort Bragg. I want to arrange an immediate transfer. The Exterminators have been fighting hard. It’s time to rotate out some troops.”

McDONALD’S RUN

So many dollies! Chelsea sat in the back of the Winnebago, hatchlings crawling all over her. Their black tentacles tickled. It felt like little kisses, like she was covered head to toe in smoochies. They would walk on her, then jump around, maybe cling to a curtain or go eat a piece of the daddies. Mr. Jenkins had put some daddy parts on plastic so his Winnebago carpet wouldn’t get messy, but the triangles’ tentacle-legs were still tracking spots of blood all over the place.

Chelsea stood, carefully, so as not to startle the dollies, and walked to the Winnebago’s small fridge. There was a portable TV on top, black and white with a tiny screen playing the seven o’clock news. She’d watched some cartoons on it, but cartoons didn’t really interest her that much anymore. The grown-ups watched the news, and Chelsea was surprised to find that she liked it.

There were only three ice cream bars left in the little fridge. Those, half a jar of mayonnaise, and a wrinkled hot dog that might have been older than Chelsea herself. She pulled out an ice cream bar, tore off the paper and started eating, but her stomach rumbled for something other than dessert.

Mister Jenkins and Mommy, come here.

Seconds later they ran through the door and shut it behind them to keep out the cold. They were both shivering.

“Whoa,” Mommy said. “They’re bigger already.”

“The dollies are growing fast,” Chelsea said. “Pretty soon they will start building the gate. Are you getting enough stuff?”

Mr. Jenkins nodded. “There’s a lot of wood in this building. I spent the whole night dragging in sticks and bushes, stuff like that.”

“And I found a lot of trash,” Mommy said. “Mister Burkle is out collecting as well.”

Chelsea smiled. Mommy and Mr. Jenkins sounded like they knew what to do.

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Chelsea said. “I want McDonald’s.”

“I don’t know if there’s one around here,” Mommy said. “Besides, it’s dark out.”

“But I want McDonald’s!”

Mommy took a step back. She was scared. She should be scared—Daddy was gone, but Chelsea could make Mr. Jenkins use the spanky-spoon just as well as Daddy had.

Mr. Jenkins pulled out a cell phone. “Give me a second, Chelsea. I’ll Google it and see if I can find one, okay?”

Chelsea nodded. “And I want ice cream bars. Lots of them.”

“I saw a party store not too far from here,” Mommy said. “I could go grab food there.”

“Found one,” Mr. Jenkins said, looking up from his phone. “It’s a couple miles from here.”

“Go get me McDonald’s, Mommy. I want McDonald’s.”

“Your mother shouldn’t go,” Mr. Jenkins said. “This is a bad neighborhood. It’s nighttime. A woman on her own out there… won’t do well.

I’ll walk, but it’s two miles away, so might take me an hour and a half.”

“Can you take Mister Korves’s motorcycle?” Chelsea asked.

Mr. Jenkins shook his head. “No, I don’t know how to ride.”

“Then walk,” Chelsea said. “And make it fast.”

Mr. Jenkins nodded rapidly.

“Do you have enough money?” Mommy asked.

“I’ll find an ATM,” he said. “I’ll stock up. We’re going to be here for a few more days.”

“Two more,” Chelsea said. “Two more days, and then the angels come. Now get going, and don’t you dare forget the ice cream.”

Mr. Jenkins ran off, his fat shaking with every step. Mommy ran out behind him before the Winnebago door could even close. They did what Chelsea said, and that was as it should be.

They all did what she said—all but one.

Chelsea closed her eyes and spread her mind, reaching out. Where was he? Where was the boogeyman? Was he thinking of her? Was he afraid of her? If not, she would make him afraid.

She found him, but she couldn’t connect. Something was blocking her. Chauncey.

What are you doing, Chauncey? Are you stopping me from scaring the boogeyman?

I told you not to connect to him.

And I told you you’re not the boss of me.

Chelsea, the destroyer is not a toy.

He has stopped the angels four times.

If he finds you, he will kill you.

When you connect to him, you risk everything.

Chelsea felt angry. Not just at the boogeyman but at Chauncey.

No one can tell me what to do. Not anymore.

Chelsea waited for him to reply. He didn’t. Instead, hundreds of images smashed into her brain like rapid-fire visual lightning. Images of the boogeyman burning hosts, strangling them, hitting them, killing them.

Chauncey, stop it.

She started to shake, yet the images kept coming, images of soldiers shooting dollies, stabbing them, stomping them. Pretty dolly bodies smashing, purple stuff squishing out in long, gloopy jets.

Chauncey, no!

She couldn’t breathe, yet still the images came. Images of gates, beautiful gates, exploding, disintegrating, breaking into tiny pieces and the pieces rotting to blackness. She felt that pressure in her bladder again…

Okay, I won’t contact him. I promise!

The images stopped.

Chelsea took a deep breath. The boogeyman, he wasn’t a game at all. He was death. For-real death, not movie death.

Now you understand. If you connect with him, you bring death upon your people.

She ran her hand down to where her bathing suit went. The front of her pants was a little damp. Chauncey had caused that, but it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t the one who killed, who burned, who destroyed. He wasn’t the one who had made her pee her pants a second time.

It was the boogeyman’s fault.

And sooner or later, she would make him pay.

NO MEANS NO

Another dark night at the ruins of Clan Jewell. Cold as shit. Again. Dew hated the cold. He, Margaret and Perry stood in what had once been the Jewells’ kitchen. A bright half-moon lit up the snow in a silvery light. Barely an inch of fluff already covered most of the blackened remains, a layer of white sitting on top of cindered chunks of wood and warped appliances.

They stood there, out there in the cold, because Perry still refused to go inside the trailer. He wouldn’t go near the hatchlings.

“Perry, they’re locked in individual cages,” Margaret said. “They can’t get to you.”

She had changed; Dew could hear it in her voice. So much anger in her now, so different from the Margaret Montoya he’d met months ago. She’d been devastated after Amos’s death, but now? Now an unhealthy dose of rage brewed in her little chest.

“There’s no way they can get out of those cages,” she said.

“It’s not… not that,” Perry said. His words sounded strained, broken, as if he had to work to complete a sentence. He stood still, but his upper body bobbed slightly back and forth.

“Perry,” Dew said, “you got to sack up.”

Perry shook his head. Shook it violently. Made him look like a retarded dog.

“Look,” Dew said. “Something is blocking you, but if you’re close to the triangles, you can hear?”

Perry nodded. “Yeah, when I was standing right there, I could hear them. I could hear her.”

“That’s the point,” Dew said. “We don’t know where the next gate is, Perry. The Jewells have to be there. If we find them, we find the gate. Chelsea talked to you. You have to go back in there and see if she makes contact again.”

“You have to do this,” Margaret said, her voice tight and cold. “We are not going to have let that woman die for nothing.”

Perry shook his head again. His eyes remained wide, his nostrils flaring with each breath.

“Perry,” Margaret said, “you’ve fought through so much. Tell me why you’re afraid of this little girl.”

“She’s not a little girl anymore,” Perry said. “She’s something else. She can… she can make people do things.”

“We’re with you, kid,” Dew said. “We’ll be right there, okay?”

“The answer is no, Dew,” Perry said. “You have to stop asking me to go in there. You just have to.”

“Those hatchlings are in their own little cages,” Dew said. “They cannot get to you. You need to stop being such a pussy and—”

Dew never saw Perry’s hand. Not even a blur. One second he was shaking and nodding like a rabid Saint Bernard, the next Dew felt a cast-iron vise on his throat and his feet dangled a foot off the ground.

“You don’t get it!” Perry screamed. “You just don’t get it!”

Dew clawed at Perry’s fingers, trying to isolate one, to bend it back and break it, but even the kid’s fingers were strong. Dew couldn’t pry one free.

Margaret grabbed Perry’s arm. She might as well have swung from a tree limb for all the effect she had. “Perry! Put him down!”

Perry shook Dew. Shook him. Dew’s vision blacked out for a moment, then came back—he only had a few seconds left. He kicked out, clumsily, trying to get his actions under control. One foot connected, but he’d kicked Margaret, not Perry.

She grabbed at her left thigh and fell to the ground. Dew suddenly found himself down there as well, coughing and spitting. Perry was so big, so strong, so fast. Dew now knew it had been nothing but dumb luck he’d won that fight.

“I’m not afraid of what she’ll do to me!” Perry screamed. “I’m afraid of what she’ll make me do to you!”

Dew rolled onto his back and looked up. Sooty snow melted into the seat of his pants. Perry was bent over him, staring down with insane eyes. Saliva flew when he talked.

Perry jabbed his finger repeatedly into his temple, punctuating his words.

“Don’t you get it? They rewrote my fucking brain! And when I go near those triangles, I can hear her. She’s fucking powerful, man. I don’t want you to end up like Bill. She told me to kill you!”

Dew hawked a loogie and spit. It came out thick with blood. “So why didn’t you?”

Perry didn’t say anything. The insanity slowly left his eyes.

“Why?” Dew said. “If she’s so powerful, why didn’t you kill me when she told you to? Why didn’t you kill me just now?”

“Because… because you can take me. You can beat me up.”

Dew laughed, but the pain in his throat changed the laugh to a cough.

“Kid, you could have broken my neck just now. You didn’t. So if this little girl has control over you, why am I still alive?”

The insane look faded away completely. Perry stood straight, stared at Dew for a few more seconds, then turned and walked away.

Margaret rose to her knees. Her hands held her left thigh, and her face was wrinkled with pain. “You kicked me.”

“Sorry,” Dew said. “My aim was off. I can’t imagine why.”

Dew slowly got to his feet, then reached down and helped Margaret up.

She let out a long breath. “Jesus,” she said. “You’re not the most sensitive guy in the world, are you? You need to stop being such a pussy? Did you really think that was going to motivate him somehow?”

“He’s a guy,” Dew said. “That kind of thing usually works with us.”

Margaret shook her head. “Can’t you men ever just talk something out?”

“You’re right, women are so much more logical,” Dew said. “Maybe I should have shown him my boxercise technique.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Fine. You’ve got me there. But hear me, Dew. Marcus and Gitsh are in the trailer mopping up Bernadette’s blood. You will get Perry to go in there and talk to those things, or that woman died for nothing.”

She pointed her finger in Dew’s face. “Do you understand me?”

So much anger in those eyes. She didn’t even look like Margo anymore. This was a new woman, one he’d helped create.

“I understand,” Dew said. “I’ll get through to him.”

Margaret walked back to the trailer, leaving Dew alone in the burned out, snow-covered kitchen.

TWO ALL-BEEF PATTIES

Rome sat slunk down in the driver’s seat of his Delta 88. The car was turned off, but even if it had been on, it would have been cold as hell because the heater hadn’t worked in months. His eyes were just high enough to look out the driver’s-side window, across Orleans Street, at the fat man with the red beard walking along a waist-high fence. Wasn’t even a sidewalk there, just a snow-covered grass strip, the fence, then trees on the other side. White guy in the wrong neighborhood, at night, carrying a big white McDonald’s bag in each hand.

“Are you kidding me?” Rome said quietly. “Doesn’t this motherfucker know where he’s at?”

In the passenger seat, Jamall shook his head. “He must not. White guy walking here at night? Alone? After hitting an ATM? It’s like he wants to get robbed.”

“Hope he got some Big Macs,” Rome said. “I’m hungry.”

The man wore jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt. Not only did he seem oblivious to his surroundings, he also seemed oblivious to the cold. Every four steps or so, his breath shot out in a big white cloud that lit up from the few working streetlights.

“I’ll tell you what,” Rome said. “Somebody has a serious fucking hankering for McDonald’s.”

They’d been watching an ATM on Mack Avenue, looking for an easy mark. This guy had walked up on foot and taken out money. Looked like a lot of money. Rome and Jamall then watched him go into McDonald’s. Five minutes later he’d walked out with the two big bags. The man turned south on Orleans and had been walking for fifteen minutes straight. Rome even drove a block past Orleans, to St. Aubin, then several blocks south to get ahead of the man, then cut back on Lafayette and finally up the other side of Orleans. Here the street was barren, a parking lot on one side, the long stretch of trees on the other. He’d parked and they’d waited, seeing if the man was stupid enough to keep walking down such a deserted area.

He was.

It just didn’t get any easier than this. And that made Rome nervous. “Am I missing something?” he asked after the man had gone a half block past the Delta 88. “For real, this guy is alone?”

“He’s just going straight,” Jamall said. “Not even enough sense to walk on a main road. Dude must be in a hurry.”

“No one here,” Rome said.

Jamall nodded. “No one. You said you wanted a sure thing, man. It don’t get more sure than this. We gonna do this, we gotta move. Let’s go get paid.”

Jamall and Rome got out of the car and left the doors slightly open. That wouldn’t give them away, because the dome light didn’t work. They pulled their guns, Rome a simple .38 revolver, Jamall his fancier Glock. They ran across the empty street and came up on the man from behind.

He heard them, because he turned—and when he did, he found two guns pointing at his face.

“Gimme your wallet!” Rome said. He held the .38 in his right hand. His left he held out, palm up.

The man just stared at him.

Jamall made a show of pulling back the Glock’s slide, then pointed it at the man’s face again. “You give my man that wallet, or it’s your ass. And put them bags down—we’re takin’ those, too.”

The man turned to stare at Jamall. White as a sheet, big red beard—he couldn’t possibly look more out of place. Had to be a tourist or something like that. Or maybe a retard, because he didn’t look scared. Not even a little bit.

“No,” the man said.

Fury crossed over Jamall’s face. Rome got nervous. Jamall didn’t like it when people told him no. Especially white people. Rome chanced a quick look up and down the street. No one there, but this was already taking too long.

“I’m only gonna tell you one more time,” Jamall said. “Put down those bags and give my boy your wallet. If there’s enough money in it, I won’t kill you.”

“No,” the man said. “I can’t. I still have to get ice cream bars. Chelsea will be mad if I don’t come back with ice cream bars.”

Jamall took two steps forward and put the barrel of the gun on the man’s forehead.

“I don’t give a fuck about your ice cream bars,” Jamall said. “Put down the motherfucking bags.”

The man knelt a little and set the bags on the snow-covered grass, then stood. He still didn’t look scared. Rome didn’t like this shit, not at all. Usually people crapped their drawers when you pulled a gun on them. This guy looked like he’d had a gun to his face so many times it bored him. Fuck the money, Rome wanted out of there.

The man reached back with his right hand.

“That’s it,” Jamall said. “Real slow, gimme that wallet.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. He reached up with his left hand, grabbed Jamall’s gun and lifted it until the barrel pointed into the air. It wasn’t a fast move, but it wasn’t slow, either: just smooth. No hesitation. Jamall seemed to freeze for a second, almost in disbelief that someone could be so stupid as to fuck with him, and then he tried to pull the gun free.

It was only then that Rome saw the man’s other hand coming out from behind his back, coming out with that same speed, that same confident smoothness—and holding a gun.

The man put the barrel against Jamall’s stomach and pulled the trigger.

The sound was like a cap gun. It didn’t sound real. Jamall’s face twitched, more in surprise than in pain.

Smooth as before, the man raised his gun up under Jamall’s chin and pulled the trigger twice.

Then the man’s throat started spraying blood. At first Rome thought Jamall’s blood was spraying on the man, but Jamall wasn’t bleeding that much—he just wobbled for a second, then fell.

The fat man dropped the gun and put both hands to his throat. His expression didn’t change. The guy still looked bored, even as blood seeped between his fingers.

The man turned to face Rome.

Rome had fired his .38. That’s what had happened. Smoke curled from the stubby barrel. He hadn’t even known he’d fired, but he must have. He’d shot the man right in the throat.

The man blinked a few times, then knelt, one knee on the ground. He reached back with his hands and eased into a sitting position. Blood continued to pour out of his throat, some of it splattering on the white McDonald’s bags. The blood stained his collar and his shirt, dripping from his red beard.

“I wish,” the man said quietly, “I wish you could know the love.”

Then he lay down on his side and stopped moving.

The blood slowed to a soft pulsing.

Rome saw the man’s wallet in his back pocket. He looked at it for a second, then his common sense returned in a flash of panic. He’d just killed that man. Armed robbery, that made it murder one. He looked at Jamall. Jamall was dead. Fuck! Jamall? How could Jamall be dead?

There were no sirens. There wouldn’t be. No one called the cops around here for a few gunshots.

Rome’s heart hammered away. His breath came fast and deep. This was so fucked up.

He reached down and grabbed the man’s wallet. It was thick with cash. Rome put the wallet in his pocket. He looked up and down the street. Cops wouldn’t come, not unless someone drove along this street and saw two bodies on the ground. Cops would be out fast then, real fast. Rome looked at the waist-high fence. It was torn open just a few feet away.

Run, or cover it up?

He put his .38 in his pants, grabbed the fat man’s arm and dragged him to the fence. Dude must have weighed 250. Rome pulled the cut fence aside and ducked under the cross-post, dragging the man’s body through. He ducked back out under the fence, then saw the trail of blood on the snow.

Fuck. Someone would see that as soon as the sun came up. Still, that gave him plenty of time.

But there was one body left.

Rome looked at his dead friend. He’d known Jamall since they’d both been ten years old. Rome had seen people die before, but not his friend.

He felt a tear slide down his left cheek.

“I’m sorry, man,” Rome said as he grabbed Jamall’s wrist and started to drag. “I promise I’ll look out for your moms. I hate to leave you here, but I gotta get out. I’d expect you to do the same, man, you know this.”

Jamall didn’t say anything. He just stared up at the sky as he slid along.

Rome dragged Jamall’s body under the fence. He didn’t put Jamall right next to the fat man, but rather about five feet away. He could do at least that much for his friend. Rome slipped under the fence one last time, grabbed both McDonald’s bags and hurled them over. Finally, he grabbed the guns and ran back to the car. He could ditch them in the river.

Less than five minutes after they’d first approached the man, Rome drove his car down the empty street.

LIKE LEGOS

Chelsea made Mommy and Mr. Burkle leave the Winnebago. She sat very still, very quiet, and focused all her attention on Mr. Jenkins.

She could sense his location. She could send Mommy to him… but it was too late.

Chelsea felt his life slip away.

Death.

She’d felt the deaths of Daddy, Mr. Beckett and Ryan Roznowski, but this was different. They were vessels, their only purpose to carry the dollies. Mr. Jenkins was like her. He was converted; they were connected.

She took a deep breath and tried to deal with the amount of information flowing through her mind. It wasn’t easy. The infection had spread to many of General Ogden’s men. She constantly drew knowledge from them, searching their brains for new information.

Now she knew words that most seven-year-olds would probably never have heard, and definitely not understood.

Words like collective organism.

Mr. Jenkins had been part of that collective.

Chauncey, what will happen to Mister Jenkins now?

He will decompose quickly, so that no one can study him and use him against us.

But what will happen to his… to his interface? To all the little parts of you inside of him?

They are designed to destroy themselves as his body shuts down.

But we can use them.

No, Chelsea, they must decompose. Do not go near him. Stay hidden.

Chelsea thought. She reached out with her mind, connected with the little things inside Mr. Jenkins’s body. Could she? Yes… yes, she could.

Chauncey, I can change them. I can put them in different orders, like Legos.

Chelsea, I command you to stop this.

Chelsea ignored Chauncey. She loved God, but maybe God up in Heaven didn’t know how things worked down here on Earth. She sent a strong signal to the bits and pieces inside Mr. Jenkins, a signal in the form of two images.

One image of Mr. Jenkins, fat cheeks smiling, as he looked when he was alive. He was to stay that way. They were not to make him decompose.

The other image was of her favorite flower.