Pandemic Page 150

Mitch.e.l.l suddenly stood up, his fists clenched, his body shaking with intensity. Tim took a step back.

“Examine me on the boat,” Mitch.e.l.l said. “Or in the helicopter, or plane or whatever the f.u.c.k you’re using to get me the h.e.l.l out of here.”

Clarence stepped forward, put himself between Tim and the crazy man covered with rotten goo. Clarence had his gloved hands up, palm out.

“Mister Mitch.e.l.l, please calm down,” he said. “Doctor Feely just has to run a couple of tests.”

Tim moved to the side, used his best soothing voice. “It won’t take long, Mister Mitch.e.l.l,” he said. “You look very dehydrated. I’m going to put in an IV and get you some fluids, okay? While I’m doing that, I need you to tell me your recent history — when you came to the city, what happened after that.”

Mitch.e.l.l closed his eyes, shook his head so hard his cheeks wobbled.

“No-no-no,” he said. “All you need to see is this.”

He pulled at his jacket sleeve, slid it up until half his forearm was exposed. He pointed at a puffy red spot a few inches above his wrist.

“That,” he said. “These things pop, and a day later, those motherf.u.c.kers die.”

Tim tried to control his excitement. A pustule, the same thing he’d seen on Candice Walker … was that little blister full of hydras?

Slow down, Timmy Boy, do this right. Take care of the patient first, then go from there.

“I see,” Tim said. “Mister Mitch.e.l.l, do you mind if I call you Cooper?” The man shrugged. “Uh, sure. I guess.”

“Good, Cooper. Now just let me get that IV into you, okay? Your body needs fluids.”

Cooper stared off, nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, but I’m not crazy. I’m not.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Tim lied.

As Tim ran an IV needle into the back of Cooper’s wrist, the man started talking rapidly. His story began with a man named Steve Stanton and a trip out to Lake Michigan to find plane wreckage. Cooper’s best friend Jeff. Some guy named Bo Pan. A high-tech fish-bot. Arrival in Chicago. A night of drinking. A few days so sick he could barely move. Jeff, gone. The incident in the boiler room, where Jeff became something other than human. Fleeing the Trump Tower. Meeting a woman named Sofia, whom the bad guys murdered. The bad guys getting sick and dying. Making the video and waiting for help.

Tim felt for the man. Cooper had been through so much. Forget the capital C and Z, this guy was all-caps CRAZY, with some exclamation points to boot.

But Tim also sensed Cooper was leaving out a few bits of information — rather disturbing bits, based on what he was willing to share — but his babbling tale provided a quick overview on the hydra contagion’s morphology. It was everything Margaret had hoped for and more: the ultimate weapon against the Converted.

Cooper’s story ended with him lying under a decomposing body, which explained the slime. Tim felt suddenly grateful for the CBRN suit, which filtered out most of Cooper’s rather pungent stench of death.

“That’s everything that happened,” Cooper said. “I told you what I saw, so now you can get me out of this city.”

“Soon,” Tim said. “We have a little bit of work to do here first.”

Cooper’s hands shot out, fingers clutching Tim’s thick suit. He pulled hard, his face mas.h.i.+ng into Tim’s gas mask, their foreheads touching, the mask’s lenses the only thing separating their eyes.

“Get me the f.u.c.k out of here!”

Clarence stepped in fast and grabbed Cooper’s wrists. An instant later, the man lay facedown with Clarence straddling his back.

Tim just stood there, not knowing what to do as Cooper thrashed and screamed.

“Get me out of here you a.s.sholes get me out of here please please I don’t wanna die!”

“Calm down,” Clarence said. “You’re not going to die.” He pulled zip strips out of a pocket in his webbing, and in a flash had Cooper’s hands bound tightly behind him.

Clarence picked the man up off the floor and set him in the swivel chair.

Cooper Mitch.e.l.l stared out for a second, then began to giggle.

“Die-die-die,” he said. “Am I tasty? Death is die-die-dielicious!”

The man’s screams echoed through the ruined lobby, seemed to make the Rangers skittish.

Clarence gave Tim’s shoulder a light smack. “Would you shut this guy up?”

Tim reached into the medkit and found a vial of etomidate. He quickly prepped a syringe, then injected it into the IV line.

Cooper continued to struggle for a few seconds, but quickly lost energy. He babbled a bit more, then his head drooped.

Tim could agree with Cooper on one thing, at least: he also wanted to get the f.u.c.k out of Chicago

“Don’t drug him too much,” Clarence said. “We might still need to move on short notice. Now get to work and find out if he’s got our magic bug.”

Tim again looked across the lobby — there was Margaret, still watching, not making any movement toward them. If she moved any farther away, she’d be out on the sidewalk.

“Clarence, get Margo over here,” Tim said. “This is supposed to be her show, man. We still have to thaw out the bodies from the lobby so we can get blood and tissue samples.”

Clarence shook his head. “I’ll get some Rangers to help you. Margaret told me she needs to examine the room where we found Mitch.e.l.l. She said that’s the best place to start for environmentals.”