Pandemic Page 89

“So it’s not a cure, and we still don’t know if it prevents infection,” Blackmon said. “Can we test it on lab animals? See if it really does inoculate them?”

Murray shook his head. “The crawlers only survive in humans, Madam President. We don’t know why. They don’t even survive in primates.”

Blackmon nodded. She fell silent, stared off.

Murray waited. He already knew what she was going to ask.

She looked at him. “The SEALs on the Coronado took the inoculant yesterday, did they not?”

Murray nodded.

Blackmon sighed. Murray had seen that before, too — a leader’s reluctant acceptance that he or she had to put someone directly in the line of fire.

“We need a volunteer,” she said. “Get one of those SEALs to Black Manitou, inject him with the crawlers. We have to know for sure if this actually works.”

She wasn’t f.u.c.king around. But to directly expose a serviceman to that risk … the soldier Murray had once been bristled at the thought.

“Madam President, we have a little time to keep testing the—”

“Now, Director Longworth. We’ve already turned a huge sector of our economy over to making the inoculant. If it doesn’t work, then we have to put all resources behind Doctor Montoya’s hydra theory.”

Murray nodded again. The president was right, of course — protecting a single soldier wasn’t worth the wait. Four sunken navy s.h.i.+ps and over a thousand dead sailors were ample enough evidence for that.

“I’ll take care of it, Madam President.”

“Thank you, Director Longworth.”

He’d been dismissed. He left the Oval Office.

The president had given him an order. Maybe one of Klimas’s men would actually volunteer. Knowing those crazy-a.s.s SEALs, they probably all would.

Murray hoped the inoculation worked.

h.e.l.l, for once, he’d even pray.

THE HANGOVER

Steve Stanton threw up. Again. At least this time he’d made it to the toilet.

When his stomach finally relaxed, he slumped down on his b.u.t.t. He wondered how much dried urine from hotel residents past he was now sitting in.

It wasn’t the first time he’d gone drinking, but he’d never partied that hard before. Now, he was paying the price.

His head pounded so bad it hurt to move. His throat felt sore. His body ached.

Becky had left a few hours earlier. Sometime around noon, if he remembered correctly. What a night.

He, Steve Stanton, had gone out to a bar, met a girl and got laid. He could hardly believe it.

But now, oh, man … his head.

He had to stand up, then make his way back to bed. He’d sleep the day away, or at least try to.

Tomorrow, maybe, he’d feel better.

THE HANGOVER, PART II

Cooper took the wet washcloth off his forehead, flipped it, then gently set it back in place, sighing as he felt the fabric’s coolness against his skin.

He was getting too old for this s.h.i.+t. He was certainly old enough, experienced enough, to know what awaited him at the business end of ten beers and six shots.

Cooper glanced at the room’s other bed. It held one occupant: the waitress from Monk’s. He didn’t remember Jeff bringing her back with them, nor did he remember hearing anything during the night. He didn’t remember seeing her when he’d stumbled to the bathroom for the washcloth. How far gone did he have to be to not know his best friend was tagging a hot waitress just a few feet away?

A loud, sawing snoring sound came from the foot of the beds, by the TV on the dresser. Cooper slowly lifted himself up on his elbows. There was Jeff, buck naked, lying on the floor on top of his jeans and AC/DC s.h.i.+rt.

“Strong work,” Cooper said.

He lay back and closed his eyes, tried to manage his throbbing head. It hurt to swallow. Had he been screaming all night? He wasn’t sure, because he couldn’t really remember anything after that sixth beer.

Yes, he was old enough to know better. After he slept this one off, he’d make changes. Sure, he’d promised himself the same thing a hundred times before, but this time would be different.

THE COOL KIDS

Maybe Tim wasn’t so unlucky after all.

He’d worked on Black Manitou long before it had been a government-owned facility. That had been his first job out of college, working for a civilian biotech company engaged in questionable research. That research had gone south: people had died in horrible ways. He’d almost died himself.

After that, he’d taken the job with the Operation Wolf Head task force, preferring the isolation of a military s.h.i.+p on the water to the memories of what he’d seen on land. He hadn’t actually thought the infection could return. He’d felt protected, safe.

But that hadn’t lasted.

The infection’s reemergence and all the death that came with it made him think he was some kind of doomed soul. And yet, that math didn’t add up.

How many people had died during his time on Black Manitou? He wasn’t sure, but that number paled in comparison to the task force disaster, to five s.h.i.+ps and over a thousand corpses resting at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

Yet he had survived … again. He was one of only three people to make it out alive. On top of that, he was now one of the few people in the world immune to that alien bulls.h.i.+t.

Probably immune, anyway.

For now he was as safe as safe could be, sitting at a table in the Coronado’s cargo hold, sipping Lagavulin with three SEALs who had taken quite a s.h.i.+ne to him.