analysis.
Margaret and Amos entered the airtight room through the flexible airlock.
Inside, Dew Phillips was waiting—and he wasn’t wearing a biosuit. He stood next to the charred body laid out on the steel table. It was horribly burned, especially around what was left of the legs.
Margaret felt anger wash over her; this man could be contaminating her lab, impeding any work she might accomplish now that she had an actual body and not a disintegrating pile of rotting black flesh. “Agent Phillips, what are you doing in here without a biosuit?”
He just stared at her. He pulled a Tootsie Roll from his pocket, unwrapped it slowly, popped the candy into his mouth, and then dropped the wrapper on the floor. “Nice to see you, too, Doc.”
Dew’s deep green eyes resembled the color of dark emeralds. His skin was pale, his face stubbled and haggard, his suit wrinkled beyond all repair. His mottled scalp shone under the harsh lab lights. Age hadn’t affected his body, not much—it looked rock solid under the wrecked suit.
“Answer my question,” Margaret demanded, her voice mechanized by the suit’s small speaker. She hadn’t liked him from the start, hadn’t liked his cold demeanor, and this incident wasn’t helping change her opinion at all.
Dew chewed for a moment, cold eyes staring into Margaret’s. “I got up close and personal with this guy. If he’s contagious, I’ve got it, so what’s the point in putting on a human condom?”
She walked up to the table and examined the body. The fire had briefly touched the head, burning away all hair and leaving a scalp dotted with small blisters. A twisted expression of wide-eyed rage etched the corpse’s face. Margaret suppressed a shiver, first at the very picture of lunacy on the table before her, then at Dew Phillips, who had looked straight into this horrid expression and pulled the trigger three times.
The arms and legs were the worst, burned to blackened cinders in places. Where the skin remained, it was the leathery greenish black of third-degree burns. The left hand was nothing more than a skeletal talon covered with chunks of cindered flesh. The right hand was in better shape, almost free of burns, an oddly white area at the end of a shriveled, carbonized arm. Both legs were gone below the knee.
The corpse’s genitals were badly burned. Second-degree burns covered the abdomen and lower torso. Three large bullet wounds marked the chest, two within inches of the heart and one directly over it. Smears of blood were now bone dry, flaking away, leaving whiter spots on the scorched skin.
“What happened to his legs?”
“He cut them off,” Dew said. “With a hatchet.”
“What do you mean, he cut them off? He cut off his own legs?”
“Right before he set himself on fire. With gasoline. My partner tried to put him out, and got a hatchet in the belly for his troubles.”
“Jesus,” Amos said. “He chopped off his own legs and burned himself?”
“That’s right,” Dew said. “But those nice bullet holes in his chest, those are mine.”
Margaret stared at the corpse, then back up at Dew. “So…does he have any?”
Dew reached down and turned the corpse over. For some reason it surprised her to see he wore surgical gloves. He flipped the body over with minimal effort—Martin Brewbaker hadn’t been a big man, and much of his weight had been consumed by fire.
The wounds were much worse on Brewbaker’s back, fist-size holes ripped open by the .45-caliber bullets, but that wasn’t what caught Margaret’s attention. She unconsciously held her breath—there, just left of the spine and just below the scapula, sat a triangular growth. It was the first growth she’d seen live, and not as a picture, since her examination of Charlotte Wilson. One of the bullet wounds had ripped free a small chunk of the growth. Flames had caused even more damage, but at least it was something to work with.
Amos leaned forward. “Are there any
Margaret and Amos entered the airtight room through the flexible airlock.
Inside, Dew Phillips was waiting—and he wasn’t wearing a biosuit. He stood next to the charred body laid out on the steel table. It was horribly burned, especially around what was left of the legs.
Margaret felt anger wash over her; this man could be contaminating her lab, impeding any work she might accomplish now that she had an actual body and not a disintegrating pile of rotting black flesh. “Agent Phillips, what are you doing in here without a biosuit?”
He just stared at her. He pulled a Tootsie Roll from his pocket, unwrapped it slowly, popped the candy into his mouth, and then dropped the wrapper on the floor. “Nice to see you, too, Doc.”
Dew’s deep green eyes resembled the color of dark emeralds. His skin was pale, his face stubbled and haggard, his suit wrinkled beyond all repair. His mottled scalp shone under the harsh lab lights. Age hadn’t affected his body, not much—it looked rock solid under the wrecked suit.
“Answer my question,” Margaret demanded, her voice mechanized by the suit’s small speaker. She hadn’t liked him from the start, hadn’t liked his cold demeanor, and this incident wasn’t helping change her opinion at all.
Dew chewed for a moment, cold eyes staring into Margaret’s. “I got up close and personal with this guy. If he’s contagious, I’ve got it, so what’s the point in putting on a human condom?”
She walked up to the table and examined the body. The fire had briefly touched the head, burning away all hair and leaving a scalp dotted with small blisters. A twisted expression of wide-eyed rage etched the corpse’s face. Margaret suppressed a shiver, first at the very picture of lunacy on the table before her, then at Dew Phillips, who had looked straight into this horrid expression and pulled the trigger three times.
The arms and legs were the worst, burned to blackened cinders in places. Where the skin remained, it was the leathery greenish black of third-degree burns. The left hand was nothing more than a skeletal talon covered with chunks of cindered flesh. The right hand was in better shape, almost free of burns, an oddly white area at the end of a shriveled, carbonized arm. Both legs were gone below the knee.
The corpse’s genitals were badly burned. Second-degree burns covered the abdomen and lower torso. Three large bullet wounds marked the chest, two within inches of the heart and one directly over it. Smears of blood were now bone dry, flaking away, leaving whiter spots on the scorched skin.
“What happened to his legs?”
“He cut them off,” Dew said. “With a hatchet.”
“What do you mean, he cut them off? He cut off his own legs?”
“Right before he set himself on fire. With gasoline. My partner tried to put him out, and got a hatchet in the belly for his troubles.”
“Jesus,” Amos said. “He chopped off his own legs and burned himself?”
“That’s right,” Dew said. “But those nice bullet holes in his chest, those are mine.”
Margaret stared at the corpse, then back up at Dew. “So…does he have any?”
Dew reached down and turned the corpse over. For some reason it surprised her to see he wore surgical gloves. He flipped the body over with minimal effort—Martin Brewbaker hadn’t been a big man, and much of his weight had been consumed by fire.
The wounds were much worse on Brewbaker’s back, fist-size holes ripped open by the .45-caliber bullets, but that wasn’t what caught Margaret’s attention. She unconsciously held her breath—there, just left of the spine and just below the scapula, sat a triangular growth. It was the first growth she’d seen live, and not as a picture, since her examination of Charlotte Wilson. One of the bullet wounds had ripped free a small chunk of the growth. Flames had caused even more damage, but at least it was something to work with.
Amos leaned forward. “Are there any
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