Contagious Page 32

“Sounds like a plan,” Unkie Donny said.

Daddy sighed. “We’re not getting a puppy, Chelsea. Don’t start trying to get other people to campaign for you like you always do.”

“But Daddy, I want a puppy!”

“Chelsea, we’re not going to talk about this now.”

Chelsea crossed her arms. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Mommy came out of the kitchen so fast that Chelsea flinched. Mommy had her heavy wooden mixing spoon in her hand. The spanky-spoon. It was still clumped with mashed potatoes.

“Little lady, if you say that one more time, you’re going to get it.” Mommy shook the spoon as she talked, flinging little bits of mashed potatoes.

“But Mom . . .”

“Not another word,” Mommy said.

Chelsea pouted and fell back against Unkie Donny’s chest.

Mommy nodded once, blond hair bouncing, then turned and strode back into the kitchen just as fast as she’d come in.

“Chelsea is in a bit of a willful stage,” Daddy said to Unkie Donny. “Usually when she doesn’t get what she wants, she throws a tantrum. Seems she’s on her best behavior because you and Betty are here.”

“Be careful,” Unkie Donny said. “Sometimes they don’t grow out of the tantrum phase.”

Betty smacked Unkie Donny on the shoulder. “Knock it off, geezer.”

Unkie Donny laughed, and Chelsea forgot all about the puppy. She watched the men in the pajamas for a second, then grabbed Betty’s hand. “Who’s your favorite player, Betty?”

Betty reached up and stroked her cousin’s hair. “Oh, I don’t know, dolly. I don’t pay that much attention to basketball. If you want to talk about clothes or flowers, I’m your girl.”

The way Betty stroked her hair, it was so nice.

“I like dandelions,” Chelsea said.

“Oh, those are pretty,” Betty said. “Do you like the yellow kind or the white kind better?”

“I like the white kind,” Chelsea said. “I like the way they float and fly.”

Betty agreed with her. Betty always agreed with her, which was very nice. Chelsea had Daddy on her left, Betty on her right, and she was sitting on Unkie Donny’s lap. This was just so awesome.

She watched the men take off the white pajamas. She thought this was the funniest part of basketball. If she took off her pajamas in front of people, she’d get in trouble. She wanted more ice cream. She’d already had one bar, and that was supposed to be it, but Mommy wasn’t in the room.

“Daddy, can I have an ice cream bar?”

“Don’t you mean another ice cream bar, Chelsea? It’s not even noon, and I know for a fact you had one already.”

“Why can’t I have more? I like it.”

“Chelsea!” Mommy shouted from the kitchen. “Do I need to come in there?”

“No,” Chelsea said quickly. “I’ll stop.”

She sighed and fell back against Unkie Donny’s chest again. It just wasn’t fair. She watched the men walk onto the court to start the game.

HELP IS ON THE WAY

Forty miles above Chuy Rodriguez’s backyard, the Orbital finished a probability a.n.a.lysis.

The results showed an 86 percent chance of success. Well above the required 75 percent specified in its parameters.

It began to modify the seeds of batch seventeen. It also broadcast a message to the remaining hatchlings, the ones that hadn’t been able to make it to Marinesco or South Bloomingville in time, the ones that were hidden away. It sent the message to the triangles still growing in hosts, from seeds that had blown around for days before making a lucky landing.

The message said, Stay hidden, stay quiet.

Help is on the way.

VOICES

Perry Dawsey suddenly sat up in his bed. Steam floated near the ceiling. Every gla.s.s surface in the room was beaded with water, even the alarm clock that read 4:17 P.M. He still had a hangover, although it wasn’t as bad. Hunger hit him like a wave. Maybe that breakfast place Dew wanted to eat at was close by.

But it wasn’t the hangover that had woken him. It wasn’t the hunger.

It was the voices

Not the same voices he usually heard. Sort of like that, yet different. It danced away from his ability to define it, like having a word right at the edge of your thoughts and not being able to lock it down.

Something had changed. Something big. But it was also something small. Did that even make sense? No, and yet there it was.

He didn’t understand specific words, didn’t even know if the message contained words at all. More like an urge without emotion. The urge made him want to hide, to be quiet, to stay away from anyone.

Hide . . . and wait.

Perry stood up. The room was a disaster. Beer-soaked blankets in a little mountain on the floor, beer-soaked clothes next to the bed. Oh, for f.u.c.k’s sake—he’d thrown up on his jeans. The place reeked.

He walked to his duffel bag and rummaged through it. s.h.i.+t, all these clothes were dirty. He’d have to get some of Dew’s people to wash them.

Perry did the sniff test and found the least offensive T-s.h.i.+rt, sweats.h.i.+rt, underwear and jeans. The only score was one pair of clean athletic socks. He carried the clothes into the steam-filled bathroom.

First a shower, then he’d track down Dew.

SIR d.i.c.k SICKLE

The probe wasn’t made of solid material. Not permanently solid, anyway. The whole thing was a collection of tiny particles, each smaller than a grain of sand. A special locking shape combined with a static charge made the individual particles act like a solid sheet of material. It was even airtight. Depending on where the bonds were applied to each particle, any shape could be made. This included moving parts like ailerons, containers to hold fuel and nozzles to direct the force created by igniting that fuel. These parts combined to drive the soda-can-size probe through the upper atmosphere and into a thick cloud layer. High winds pulled the probe first in one direction, then the next. It rode with the wind, using the engines more for guidance than for directed flight.