Ruins by Dan Wells Page B

Shon had asked to keep her as a tactician. Now she ran Dogwood. The weary tinge to her link data told Shon she was as exhausted by the demands of emergency promotion as he was.
    Shon saluted back. “Sergeant.”
    “Thank you for coming, General,” said Michelle. “I wish I had better news.”
    “More victims?”
    “Two more, though all the victims were stationed inside East Meadow. I have the bodies isolated, and I’ve sent everyone in their units to Duckett Farm.”
    Shon sighed. “Do they know they’re in quarantine?”
    “They know they’re not allowed to leave; maybe they suspect the truth, I don’t know. Even if they do, they might not suspect it’s a bioweapon.”
    “We’re genetically engineered to fight off all disease,” said Shon. “Now that there’s a disease we can’t fight, I don’t know what else they’d think it is.”
    “I’m just hoping for the best, sir,” said Michelle. “So far none of them have gotten sick, just like the previous units we put under quarantine, so unless they’re carrying the disease and haven’t manifested yet, I think we’ve saved them all.”
    “Not all, though,” said Shon heavily.
    Michelle shook her head. “Not all. Come with me.” She led them to a small room full of white plastic bodysuits, talking as they pulled the protective coverings on over their uniforms. “The doctor arrived only two days ago, but he’s already made some excellent headway toward figuring out what the bioweapon is.”
    “That’s good.”
    “I suppose it’s progress,” said Michelle, “but as news goes, it hardly classifies as ‘good.’ The blisters seem to be caused by an autoimmune response—the bioweapon affects Partial biology in such a way that the body becomes allergic to its own skin; the skin cells can’t connect to each other properly, and the entire epidermis starts to disintegrate. There’s a word for it that I can’t remember; something big, at least five syllables.”
    Shon glanced at her sidelong, confused by the self-deprecation. “You know plenty of five-syllable words.” Almost immediately he felt her embarrassment through the link data. She was trying to stay on top of everything, and she’d learned the word, but this was so far outside the realm of her expertise and she hadn’t slept in days and there should be a doctor or a general handling this outpost, not a driver, and—
    He held up his hand. “It’s okay, Michelle, I know you’re doing your best.”
    “Acantholysis,” she said quickly, and her link data returned almost immediately to a professional calm. “I’m sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.”
    “It’s not your job to know the names of the diseases,” said Shon. “That’s what the doctor’s for. So if this . . .” He shook his head, struggling to remember the word, and eventually gave up. “If these blisters are caused by an autoimmune response, I assume that makes it harder to cure?”
    “Much harder,” said Michelle, opening a door to a basement stairwell. The antiseptic smell was stronger here, and the plastic-lined steps were puddled with disinfectant. Shon pressed his face mask tighter against his mouth and nose to keep from coughing. “But I haven’t told you the worst part yet. The other primary symptom is rough, scaly skin, something the doctor can only diagnose as icthyosis.”
    Shon parsed the Latin roots of the word and frowned in confusion. “Fish. Because of the scales, I assume?”
    “Exactly. But icthyosis isn’t communicable, it’s genetic.”
    Shon stopped short, one hand on the stairway railing. “This is a genetic disease?”
    “Somehow the humans have found a way to make a genetic disorder contagious.”
    Mattson swore, and Shon couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment; the link data from both Mattson and Michelle was sharp with fear, detectible even through the face mask. Shon looked at the door at the bottom of the stairs, which Michelle’s team had converted to a makeshift