Perry felt like maybe, just maybe, he actually did deserve some respect. He felt human again, and there was only one person responsible for that.
His friend, Dew Phillips.
“Whatever you need,” Perry said. “I’ve got your back, whatever it takes.
Let’s get this over with.”
PERRY PULLS THE TRIGGER
Before they went in, Dew gave Perry a side holster for the .45. He also gave him four full magazines, which fit into little canvas pouches fixed to the holster’s straps. At seven rounds a magazine, that gave him a total of thirty-five rounds. Not that any amount of bullets could make him feel safe.
Perry walked into Trailer B, Dew right behind him. They both wore biohazard suits. Perry’s felt even more suffocating than before. This was it, his dramatic showdown with the monsters—he felt as if the trailer should have been poorly lit, half dark, maybe a bulb or two flickering sci-fi movie style, but everything was bright-white as fuck. The first thing he saw was the empty containment cell. Gitsh and Marcus must have hosed it down or something, as all of Bernadette’s blood was gone.
Perry turned left, toward the back, toward the body lockers. On the floor in front of those lockers sat three small glass cages, each a two-foot cube.
Inside those cages, he saw them.
They saw him.
Sonofabitch.
Things just like this would have ripped out of his body if he hadn’t destroyed them first, if he hadn’t cut up the Magnificent Seven. They would have killed him just like Fatty Patty’s triangles killed her. That’s how close he’d come to death. His body shook. He forced himself to look at the .45, to make sure the safety was on—he was trembling so bad he might squeeze the trigger without even knowing it.
“Easy, kid,” Dew said as he came around to stand on Perry’s left, close to the gun hand. “Just breathe. They can’t get out of those cages. You’re in control.”
We will kill you.
The hatchlings had grown massively since tearing out of Bernadette Smith’s body the day before. Then their triangular bodies had been maybe an inch from top to bottom—now they were a foot high or more. Each tentacle-leg looked as thick as a fat baby’s arm, long and flexible, full of speed and strength.
Kill you kill you killyoukillyou.
Their eyes stared at him, all black and shiny and full of hate, one vertical eye on each of their three pyramid sides.
His hand tightened on the gun.
Yessss, use the gun. Kill the man.
“Perry, are you hearing them?”
Perry nodded.
Shoot him. Shoot him, shoot him shoothimshoothim.
Their words meant nothing, the delusional jibber-jabber of pure evil. The hatchlings were just worker ants—Chelsea was the queen.
“Where is she?” Perry said.
Silence.
“Tell Chelsea I’m coming for her,” Perry said. “Tell her I’m going to help her.”
He still felt that grayness, that fuzziness, although he could hear these hatchlings clear as day. But just them. Beyond them, nothing. Maybe he could antagonize them, get them to connect to Chelsea. They were like antennae into the larger network, a way to punch through the jamming if only Chelsea would do her part.
He is the Columbo, kill him kill him now killllhimmmmm.
“Dew, they want me to kill you,” Perry said. “Why don’t you say hi?”
“My name is Dew Phillips. I have the authority to speak on behalf of the president of the United States of America. Cease your hostile actions, and we can negotiate. What is it you want?”
The hatchlings stopped staring at Perry. Instead, they stared at Dew.
Kill him.
“What did they say?”
“They still want me to kill you,” Perry said. “They don’t have much of a vocabulary, I’m afraid.”
Dew nodded. “First of all, you nasty bastards are the ugliest pieces of shit I have ever seen.” His voice built in intensity, a hoarse gravel coloring his words. “I don’t know if you little fuck-stains can think for yourselves, but I will tell you that my patience is already gone. Now, last chance… what do you want?”
We want to kill you. We want to kill you all. Kill Columbo, kill him nowwww!
“More of the same?” Dew asked.
Perry nodded.
“Shoot one,” Dew said.
Perry turned to look at Dew. “What?”
“Shoot one of these fucking things.”
No! Shoot him shoothimshoothim shoot yourself do it doitdoit
“Perry, you need to show these things who’s boss,” Dew said. “You’ve got to show them some discipline.”
Yes. Discipline. These things had fucked with a Dawsey, and you did not fuck with a Dawsey. Perry raised the gun. He noticed that his hand wasn’t shaking anymore.
Nonononononono
He emptied the clip into the middle cage. Bullets punched through the thick glass in spiderweb-crack splashes and shredded the hatchling’s plasticine body. Seven .45-caliber bullets, all direct hits. The creature twitched a little, spasming amid splatters of purple fluid before it slumped, motionless.
Perry felt the adrenaline gush through his chest, felt a tingle in his fingers and toes. It felt like crushing a quarterback. Oh, God, did that ever feel good.
The two remaining hatchlings flailed inside their cages, trying to get away. They slammed themselves against the glass over and over, tentacle-legs whipping so fast he could barely make them out.
“What do you think, kid?” Dew said. “How did that feel?”
“My freshman year we were at Notre Dome,” Perry said. “I blindsided Tommy Pillson, knocked him out cold, caused a fumble that I ran back for a touchdown. The whole stadium booed me. Pillson had a concussion. I ended his season. They showed the hit over and over again on ESPN. Chris Berman said I was made of mean. On national TV, said I was made of mean. And that feeling was nothing compared to this.”
Dew smiled and nodded. “Now you’re getting it. Let them ponder what just happened. We’ll come back later and see if we can make any progress.”
“Do we have to kill another one?”
Dew shrugged. “One can always dream. I imagine that’s enough personal growth for one day. Come on, made of mean, you need a beer.”
DANDELIONS
Margaret stared at the flat-panel monitor mounted on the wall of the narrow autopsy room. The picture showed a split screen of two microscopes, the right side containing the powder from one of John Doe’s pustules, the left containing a tissue sample from Officer Sanchez’s hand.
“Oh man,” Dan said. “That is so totally fucked up.”
The sample from Officer Sanchez’s hand showed motion similar to what she’d seen in Betty Jewell’s blackened facial sore before the girl killed Amos. It looked like a moving, crawling nerve cell. Who knew how many of those things were in Sanchez’s system, creeping toward his brain. Maybe they were already there.
The samples from John Doe’s pustules looked similar, but different in one key way. Where the crawling nerve cell looked flexible and streamlined, John Doe’s pollen looked fuzzy. It moved only when it landed on something, and then with an awkward stiffness that spoke of an internal rigidity.
Under high magnification she saw the cause of that fuzziness—hundreds of tiny cilia-like hairs sticking out from the stiff dendrites. It reminded Margaret of a fluffy white dandelion seed.