Contagious by Scott Sigler

completely out of control. Dew understood the kid being messed up, sure. Only five weeks ago, Dawsey had snipped off his own jumblies for fuck’s sake. Dew could sympathize with some anger, some depression, even post-traumatic stress disorder, but this ?

Still, part of Dew couldn’t shake the thought that if he treated the infected the same way Perry did, his partner, Malcolm Johnson, would still be alive.

“Perry, you have to stop this,” Dew said. “Margaret thinks she can save these people. How can she do that if you keep going apeshit?”

“She can’t save them,” Perry said. He drained the bottle in one pull and opened a third. “Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I’m all the help these people need.”

Dew stared at the gigantic man for a few more moments. For the third time—and the second in the past three days—Dawsey had located a construct.

Dew remembered the horror of that first construct. So hot it melted the snow around it. Watching it light up, the whole thing glowing brightly, then the vision of thousands of creatures coming through the gate, almost pouring into the woods before a dozen HEAT missiles launched from Apache attack helicopters blasted the thing to bits.

“That’s two new doorways in a pretty short time,” Dew said. “You think there’s more?”

Perry shrugged. “I dunno. I can’t really explain it. I hear—what’s the word you spy guys use? I hear chatter. More might be coming. I can’t say. But you better get it in gear, old man, instead of sitting here with your thumb up your ass—I think the Marinesco one is well under way.”

Dew pointed at Dawsey. “You stay right here. I’m going to call this in, then I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

“Thanks, Pops,” Perry said. “Oh, and have your peons get my bag out of the Mustang’s trunk. And speaking of Mustangs, I’m going to need another one. Make sure it’s a GT. I’d prefer blue with a silver strip this time, but I’ll take whatever color you can get. I wouldn’t want to be difficult.”

Not only was Dawsey a freak, a killer, he was a smart-ass as well. Dew stared at him, wondering if maybe he should just pull the gun out again and end it.

The gun . . . that brought up an interesting question.

“You had Baumgartner and Milner down,” Dew said. “They’re both packing. Why didn’t you take their weapons?”

He saw something flicker in Perry’s eyes, a flicker that only appeared in the rare, brief instances when he talked about triangles or hatchlings—was it fear?

“Guns are for pussies,” Perry said. “I find a tire iron has more of a Charles Bronson flair.”

Dew stared for a few more seconds, then picked up the map and walked out of the house. As he left, he saw the first of the two Margo-Mobiles pulling up into the drive. When Margaret found out she had nothing to work with, she would not be happy.

WHIPPED

The semi’s air brakes hissed as the tractor slowed and stopped.

The McMillian house wasn’t much to look at, a typical boxy three-bedroom, two-story affair, once-white paint now cracked, peeling and speckled with dark spots of exposed and well-weathered wood. Big yard, old trees devoid of leaves. Two gray vans were parked on the street, and she guessed that the nondescript black Lincoln in the lawn belonged to Dew.

The downpour was actually a welcome break—icy rain would keep curious neighbors inside. A few might peek outside at the commotion, but as long as they didn’t try to cross the perimeter, that was fine.

Gitsh craned around the driver’s seat to look at Margaret, his ’fro bouncing a bit with each movement. “Should Marcus and I go ahead and connect the trailers, prep the examination room, ma’am?”

“Yes, Gitsh,” Margaret said. “Thank you.”

He got out and closed the driver’s-side door. Examination room was a funny phrase. That’s what they all called it, of course, but so far they hadn’t done any examinations—only autopsies. Not exactly ironic, considering that this two-trailer setup had