Pandemic Page 149

As they pa.s.sed the woman, Clarence looked down: three red spots were spreading across her chest. A fourth bullet had blown off the top of her head, splattering her brains across the carpet in a rough oblong. A black .38 revolver lay near her right hand.

Clarence checked off the room numbers as he pa.s.sed them by — 1804, 1805, 1806 … Room 1812 would be down the hall, just past a left-hand turn. Coming from that direction, he heard the faint sound of men’s voices …

“The lights don’t work,” said the first voice. “All the bulbs is broke.”

“You can see fine enough,” said the second voice. “Man, look at that nasty body.”

“That is sooo gross,” said the first voice. “Move it so we can see if anything else is under that desk.”

“No, you move it,” said the second.

Cooper felt numb, like he wasn’t even there, and maybe he wasn’t … maybe this was all a f.u.c.ked-up dream and he wasn’t hiding under an oozing, rancid, bloated body, maybe he wasn’t hiding from two men who would shove a signpost up his a.s.s and slow-roast him over a bed of coals.

“Flip you for it,” said the first voice.

“Okay,” said the second. “Call it.”

Go away just go away just go away kill myself kill myself now Jesus please help me please

“Heads,” said the first voice.

“a.s.shole,” said the second. “Hold my gun.”

Cooper felt the dead body on top of him start to slide off. He raised Sofia’s pistol and squeezed the trigger.

Clarence heard the roar of four quick gunshots — a pistol, sounded like a .40-cal.

Klimas’s calm voice in the headset: “Go-go-go.”

Bosh and Roth sprinted around the corner.

Cooper was still on his back, still covered in dead-person sludge, pointing his pistol up at the bearded face of a very surprised man. Cooper had fired four times — and missed all four times. His hands shook so bad that the gun looked like some poorly made stop-action movie.

“That’s him.”

The words didn’t come from the bearded man, but from closer to the door. Cooper looked over — a man wearing a red-and-black knit Blackhawks hat cradled two weapons against his chest, a shotgun and a rifle. “Holy s.h.i.+t,” the man said. “That’s him.”

He fumbled with the weapons. He dropped the rifle, started to bring the shotgun up.

The rectangle of light from the hallway wavered as someone stepped into it.

Cooper heard a click-click-click: the man with the shotgun dropped. The bearded man turned to face the door. Click-click-click: he twitched, then fell to his back.

He lay side by side with Cooper. The man’s chest heaved. His eyes blinked in surprise, but only for a few seconds — then they stared out at nothing.

“Clear!” a voice called out.

Another answered the same.

Cooper looked at his hand, saw the empty pistol was still in it, then shook his hand to let it drop. To come through all this and then to be shot … what if it was too late, what if they were going to shoot him anyway, and—

“Cooper Mitch.e.l.l?”

He looked up, saw a man in a gas mask, covered head to toe in a heavy chem suit. Through the eye lenses, Cooper saw the man inside was black.

“Cooper Mitch.e.l.l,” the black man said again. “You’re Cooper Mitch.e.l.l?”

Cooper nodded.

The man reached down a gloved hand. “I’m Agent Clarence Otto. We’re here to rescue you.”

Cooper couldn’t speak. His vision blurred as the tears started to flow. He reached out and let Agent Clarence Otto take his hand.

DR. FEELY’S BEDSIDE MANNER

Tim Feely had just finished setting up a centrifuge when the elevator opened. Two men stepped out: Clarence in his CBRN suit with combat webbing strapped to his chest and a pistol holster strapped to his thigh, and none other than the guest of honor himself — Cooper Mitch.e.l.l.

Mitch.e.l.l wore a tattered, filthy winter coat. Gray slime smeared his face, making the whites of his wide eyes seem all the whiter. The man looked crazy with a capital C. h.e.l.l, probably even a capital Z to boot.

Clarence guided Mitch.e.l.l by an elbow, escorted him to Tim’s impromptu examination area. It wasn’t much: basic medical equipment set up on the reception desk’s remains, a portable table stacked with the centrifuge, a microscope and some other lab gear … just things that could be carried in by hand. The Rangers had thrown in a cushy swivel chair they’d found in the office behind the reception desk.

Tim pointed to the chair. “Put him there, please.”

Might as well make the crazy carrier of what could be humanity’s salvation as comfy as possible.

Clarence eased Mitch.e.l.l into the chair. Mitch.e.l.l’s eyes flicked everywhere: left, right, up, down. Yep, definitely a capital Z.

Tim also looked around. Where the h.e.l.l was Margaret? She’d insisted on this mission. He saw her, over on the far side of the lobby — just standing there in a CBRN suit that was too big for her, staring at Mitch.e.l.l, doing absolutely nothing.

Why wasn’t she helping?

Tim felt a hand on his shoulder: Clarence.

“Feely, you want to get started, or what?”

Tim turned to look at the sh.e.l.l-shocked Mitch.e.l.l. The man had been through h.e.l.l. He’d worry about Margaret later. This man needed help.

“Yeah, I’m on it,” Tim said. He moved to stand in front of Mitch.e.l.l. “Mister Mitch.e.l.l. I’m Doctor Feely. Don’t mind this wacky suit, I a.s.sure you there is one d.a.m.n-handsome man behind this mask. I’m going to examine you, okay?”