The Dark Water by Seth Fishman Page B

cronies, is marching straight to Veronica’s station. That’s what she said anyway.
    â€œOkay, now enter the code into the second door on the right,” she says, and spits out a number. Repeats it so he can get it right. It beeps green, and Odessa opens the door. She’s been quiet since they left, but there’s not much to talk about. Still, it’s a little unlike her.
    â€œClose the door!” Veronica screams, oddly insistent, and he backpedals and slams it. He can hear the lock engaging.
    â€œGreat,” she says. Jimmy hears a muffled
thud
in the background. Not a gunshot. Something else.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he asks.
    â€œSutton. He’s outside my door, but never mind. Just hurry. Now you’re going to go through a pair of sliding doors and I want you to head to the left,
not the right.
The right will take you to somewhere you don’t want to be. Once you’re through the door, put on the suits as quick as you can. But be thorough, check each other’s seals.”
    Jimmy looks around, and sees that they’re in a lab. There are microscopes and emergency showers and sinks. There are lab coats on the wall. Jimmy goes through a pair of sliding doors and hits a T junction hallway, except instead of a dead-end wall in front of them, it’s windowed, and through the windows he sees cages upon cages. Dogs and cats and mice in aquariums. Some are bouncing around, others aren’t moving at all. He’s too far away to see if they are sick, or covered in sores, or bleeding.
    â€œI don’t like this,” Odessa says. The dogs, as if they heard her, begin to howl.
    â€œMe neither,” he admits. He knows that this is what happens in a lab, but he has a German shepherd and a Siamese back home and he loves them and now he can only think of them aging to death and dying.
    To the right, another door, one with a big bright red
4
painted on it.
    To the left, a door with a
2
, painted blue. They go that way, press a big red button and the door lifts up, like for a garage. And inside, sure enough, suits. Not hazmats, but clunkier, made of a thick blue plastic that seems sturdier than those the soldiers wore at Westbrook.
    Odessa hesitates, so he takes a suit down for her and helps her in, piece by piece. Veronica’s been quiet, which means either she’s being very patient or she’s in trouble. Either way, they take their time, right foot, left foot, zip and seal. The helmet is part of the suit, so all you have to do is zip, Velcro, zip, Velcro. Two layers of suit, three layers of gloves, all built in together.
    â€œIf this is for level two, what do you think the suits look like in level four?” Jimmy says, and is gratified to see Odessa smile.
    â€œProbably Michelin Man costumes.”
    â€œAnd why do they even bother? They have the water around. They can heal themselves from any virus or whatever they get.”
    â€œThey’d need too much,” she replies, her voice muffled, her breath leaving a small cloud of fog. “If they had to use it every time they left the room, they’d have run out years ago. They were almost out when we showed up, remember?”
    They stand looking at each other, Odessa in her new body, locked away in a mobile plastic kit like an action figure still in its case. There’s a lock of her red curly hair covering one of her eyes, and Jimmy has to fight the urge to reach out and try to move it, even with her helmet on.
    â€œYou ready?” he asks.
    She snorts. “For what? I have no idea what we’re doing.”
    He makes a face. “Veronica?” he says. The walkie-talkie is awkward in his clunky hands. She doesn’t respond. He tries again. Nothing.
    â€œNo way,” Odessa says.
    â€œMaybe she’s doing something.” Jimmy lifts the walkie-talkie to try again, but Odessa bats his hand down.
    â€œNo,” she hisses. “If someone got to her, then you’re just