Contagious Page 67

“The gun or the hand?” Baum asked without taking his eyes off Perry.

“Both,” Dew said. “But I’ll surprise you with the order of entry. And quit staring. Jesus. You’d think you two had never sat down to eat with a guy that kicked your a.s.s before.”

“Sure,” Milner said. “All the time. It’s like a regular outing with my buddies back home.”

Perry smiled at him and held up one hand, waving his fingers toward his palm. Come on, the gesture said, let’s go.

“Knock it off, Dawsey,” Dew said. “All three of you, just can the s.h.i.+t. Perry is here because he wants to work with us, ain’t that right?”

Perry nodded.

“As for you two”—Dew looked at Baum and Jens in turn—“stop being p.u.s.s.ies. This is too important for you guys to be all b.i.t.c.hy because he got the drop on you.”

Dew stared at Baum. “Well?”

Baum kept looking at Perry for a few more seconds, then let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. “f.u.c.k it,” he said. “He’s not the first p.r.i.c.k to break my nose.”

Dew slid his stare over to Milner. “How about you?”

Milner finally tore his glare away from Perry to return Dew’s stare. “Your boy here is bad news, Dew,” he said quietly. “You could track this guy just by following the trail of corpses. He murders people.”

“They’re not people,” Perry said. Why couldn’t anyone understand that?

“Save it,” Milner said. “He’s a f.u.c.king psycho, Dew, and I’m not eating with him.”

Jens stood up and dropped his napkin on his plate.

“Sit your a.s.s down, Milner,” Dew said.

“You got a problem with it?” Milner said. “Then fire me. Otherwise, I’ll be in the car.”

He turned and walked out of Applebee’s.

Perry looked down at his plate. Was Milner right? Was he just a psycho? No. Those people were not people at all. They were infected. They had to die. All the infected had to die.

“Don’t sweat it, Perry,” Dew said. “He’ll come around.”

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. Perry didn’t give a s.h.i.+t what two peons thought. But . . . maybe he should. Dew seemed to think their opinion was important.

If Dew thought it mattered, well then, it mattered.

OATMEAL

Chelsea squirted the lighter fluid all over the kitchen. Daddy was crumpling up newspapers into big b.a.l.l.s. He crumpled, then Mommy squirted them with her can of lighter fluid and put them into the kitchen cupboards.

Family time was really fun.

“Daddy, are you sure there aren’t any guns in Mister Burkle’s truck?”

Daddy nodded. Chelsea wondered if Daddy knew what he was talking about. Mr. Burkle would be awake in a few hours, and then Chelsea could ask him personally.

“Daddy, why don’t we have any guns?”

“Why do you want guns, honey?” Daddy said. “Are . . . are you going to shoot me?”

Chelsea sighed. Now she understood why sometimes Mommy used the you’re so stupid voice on Daddy. Of course she wasn’t going to shoot him. Why would she shoot someone who had the dollies?

“Well, Daddy, Chauncey says we need guns. So go buy some.”

“We can’t just go buy them, honey,” Mommy said. “There’s, like, a waiting period or something, right Bobby?”

Daddy nodded.

Chelsea frowned. “Well, you two need to find guns. If you don’t, you’re going to have to punish each other.”

Daddy shook his head. “Chelsea, baby . . . I don’t want to hit your mom with the spoon again. Don’t make me do that.”

“Please,” Mommy said. “No more. And we need to figure out where we’re going to go. Chelsea honey, are you sure we have to set the house on fire?”

“Mommy,” Chelsea said. “If you ask me that just one more time, you get the spanky-spoon for sure!”

“I’m sorry,” Mommy said in a fast whisper. “I’m sorry, honey, I won’t ask again.”

“Not another word!” Chelsea said.

Daddy crumpled the newspapers faster.

Chelsea squirted a bunch of the smelly fluid under the fridge. Would the fridge burn? She wished she could stay and watch, but Chauncey said they needed to leave.

Daddy snapped his fingers. “Mark Jenkins! He’s got guns. Pistols and hunting rifles—he’s got everything.”

“So go get them,” Chelsea said.

“Honey,” Mommy said quietly, “he’s not going to just give them to us. We have to figure out how to take them.”

Chelsea thought on this for a minute. She sensed that Mommy didn’t really need the spoon anymore. Mommy was different from Daddy. Mommy was a protector, like Chelsea. Which meant that Mommy could . . .

“Mommy, stick out your tongue.”

Mommy did. Chelsea looked close—Mommy had dozens of pretty little blue triangles on her tongue. Information flooded Cheslea’s brain. Each of those triangles held thousands of little crawlers, ready to shoot out, shoot into someone else. That’s how Chelsea had given G.o.d’s love to Mommy—and now Mommy was ready to give it to other people.

“Mommy, can you give Mister Jenkins smoochies? Like I gave to you?”

Daddy smiled. “That would work. He’s got the hots for you, Candy.”

Mommy glared at Daddy. It was the you’re so stupid glare that usually went with the you’re so stupid voice.

“Well?” Chelsea said. “Can you do it, Mommy?”

“I . . . I guess I could.” Mommy sounded sad and excited all at the same time. She had sad eyes when she looked at Daddy, but Chelsea could feel her excitement at the thought of spreading G.o.d’s love.

Mommy cleared her throat. “How long will it take after I give him smoochies?”

“He’ll get sleepy pretty quick,” Chelsea said. “You may have to be with him for an hour, but then Chauncey says he will feel sick and want to go to sleep, just like Mister Burkle the Postman. Can you do that, Mommy? Can you get Mister Jenkins to play for an hour after smoochies?”