Infected by Scott Sigler

behind her, cutting off the reporter’s vehement protests. Clarence Otto could handle the media. He could probably handle a lot of things, some of which she didn’t want to know about, and some of which she thought about each night she spent alone in a hotel bed. She suspected she could easily seduce him; even at forty-two, she knew her long, glossy-black hair and dark eyes were part of a look that attracted many men. She thought herself an attractive Hispanic woman—men who wanted her told her she was “exotic.” Which was funny to her, because she was born in Cleveland. Sure, she had some extra baggage around the hips (and who the hell didn’t at forty-two?), and the wrinkles were becoming a bit more prominent, but she knew damn well she could have just about any man she wanted. And she wanted Clarence.
    She quickly shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. When she got stressed, she got horny, as if her body knew the one surefire way to relieve mental tension. She was going to examine a corpse, for God’s sake, and she needed to keep her hormones in check. Margaret breathed deeply, trying to control her stress level, which seemed to soar higher with each case.
    Almost as soon as she entered the hospital, another CIA agent, this one a middle-aged man she’d never seen before, fell in at her side and escorted her through the empty halls. She figured this guy, like Clarence, knew little of the whole story. Murray wanted it that way—the fewer people who knew, the fewer places from which information could leak.
    She entered the morgue, which housed the recently erected portable decontamination chambers. Amos Braun, her only help in this hunt for answers to a biological nightmare, was waiting for her.
    “Good morning, Margaret.”
    She always thought his voice made him sound like a frog. Or maybe a toad. A drunk toad, slow and growly and maybe with only half his lips working correctly. The beyond-skinny Amos was somewhat effeminate and always the snappy dresser, though about ten years out of style. Most people initially assumed he was gay. His wife and two children, however, provided some evidence to the contrary. He always looked to be an hour or two behind on his sleep, even though his energy never faded.
    Amos had been with her in Royal Oak when they’d examined Charlotte Wilson, and every step of the way since. He was one of the best in the business, granted, but he was all she had. She’d asked Murray for more staff, told him she needed more staff, but he’d refused—he wanted to control the flow of information, limit the number of those in the know.
    “I’m surprised you beat me here, Amos.”
    “Some of us aren’t off gallivanting around with the president, my dear. Becoming quite the celebrity, aren’t you?”
    “Oh shut up and let’s get ready. We don’t have a lot of time if this body is like the others.”
    They stepped into two small dressing areas concealed by plastic dividers. Inside each area hung an orange Racal suit, designed to protect the wearer against all types of hostile agents. The suits always reminded her of hell, of burned human skin hanging like some satanic trophy.
    First she removed her clothes and donned surgical scrubs. She slid into the Racal suit, which was made of flexible Tyvek synthetic fabric, impermeable to air, chemicals or virus particles. The ankles, wrists and neck had intricate metallic rings. With the suit on, she stepped into special boots that had a metallic ring matching the ones on the suit legs. She snapped the rings together with a satisfying springy click, signifying an airtight seal. She then wrapped the seam with brown sticky tape, further sealing off her feet against possible contamination. She did the same with the thick Tyvek gloves, taping herself off at the wrist. Tape was overkill, particularly with the state-of-the-art Racal suit, but after seeing what this mysterious condition did to victims, she wanted all the precautions she could get.