She realized there was a plastic-wrapped sandwich on a plate, sitting on a small table that folded down from the wall. She didn’t remember anyone bringing it in.
“My… third?” The words cut at her dry throat. “I didn’t take a second.”
Klimas nodded. “Yes, you did. Passed with flying colors. You don’t remember?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Well, you were pretty groggy,” Klimas said. He offered her the all-too-familiar white box. “Please put this to good use, then Doctor Feely said you need to see something.”
A white box. A foil envelope inside. Inside of that, Tim Feely’s little prick.
I didn’t say my brain… I said yours.
The dream, so different. She shook her head, chasing away the thought so she could focus on the present.
“How long was I out this time?”
“Six hours or so,” Klimas said. “Feely said you could skip a test. Not like you’re going anywhere, right?”
Six hours… she’d slept for sixteen before… that made twenty-four hours or so since the battle on the Brashear…
Could infection symptoms start in twenty-four hours?
Margaret blinked. She was being ridiculous. The battle, the abuse to her body, a dip in the icy waters of Lake Michigan, her wounds — she was just rundown, out of shape. Maybe she’d caught a basic, run-of-the-mill common cold.
There was one way to find out.
She reached out and took the box. With practiced motions, she swabbed the base of her thumb and poked herself with the tester before she had time to think about what she was doing.
Then, she stared at the flashing yellow light. Flashing slower… slower… slower…
Green.
She sagged sideways onto the bunk.
Klimas stepped forward, caught her. “Margaret, you okay?”
She nodded, weakly. He helped her sit up straight. “I’m fine. Couldn’t be better.”
He patted her shoulder. “That’s a good soldier. So come on, get up. Doc Feely said you’ve rested enough.”
He stepped back to the door and held it open for her. She stood, let the blanket slide away. She wore fatigues. When had she put those on?
That’s a good soldier. She was dressed like one. In the past few days, she had sure as hell acted like one.
Fuck you, Clarence. I’m better off without you.
Margaret walked out of the mission module and onto the cargo bay’s gray metal deck. Loud male voices filled the area. A row of closed mission modules lined the far side. In front of her, she saw three neatly stowed black boats, the same ones the SEALs had used to rescue her. In front of the boats, two Humvees on metal pallets that were chained to the deck.
Behind the boats lay an open area filled with around twenty armed men wearing camouflage uniforms. In the middle of them, wearing fatigues that were too big for him, stood Tim Feely. He’d set up a makeshift lab of some kind. Metal table, and a big metal pot that hung from an improvised tripod made of plastic poles and duct tape. Beneath that pot, three Bunsen burners cast up small, blue flames. A tube ran from each burner to a blue tank strapped into a dolly.
Clarence stood at the far edge of the circle. He was staring at her. He wore a gray T-shirt, fatigue pants and black combat boots. She wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was thinking how he’d fucked up, how he was now alone. Maybe he thought she’d want to take him back.
Some of the soldiers sat on crates or chairs, others leaned against cargo and bulkheads, still others just stood there. They were talking and laughing. She saw an open crate, boxes of infection testing kits inside. Used testing units littered the area; what lights she could see glowed green. The men were checking themselves. She knew exactly what would happen if one of those units glowed red.
Three of the men raised cups to their mouths and drank. Their faces scrunched up in disgust. One of the men — Bosh, who had been prepared to shoot her — bent over at the waist, as if he was about to vomit. As men do, the others all hooted and hollered, playfully mocking him for being weak.
A short man with the worst excuse for a mustache she’d ever seen leaned in, shouted at Bosh.
“Oh come on, D-Day,” the man said. His name patch read RAMIEREZ. He was shorter than everyone present except for Tim.
“Admit it,” Ramierez said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve had some random, hot goo in your mouth.”
“Only his mom’s,” said another man, this one big enough to make Clarence look small, almost as big as Perry Dawsey had been. His name patch read ROTH. “Especially when she had the clap!”
The other men laughed loudly, relishing Bosh’s discomfort. He gagged again and almost lost it, which made them shout at him even more.
Bosh stood, his big eyes watering. “Oh my God,” he said. “I’d rather lick the pus from an infected camel taint than taste that again.”
Klimas cleared his throat loudly. The men all reacted immediately, their eyes snapping first to him, then to Margaret.
“Gentleman,” he said, “we have company.”
The men immediately straightened, quieted down. They all grinned at her, beaming with admiration — all except Bosh, who looked quite embarrassed.
Tim gave a dramatic bow. “M’lady, welcome back.” He stood straight. “Good to see you tested negative.”
She nodded. If she hadn’t, she would have died in her bed, and everyone knew it.
Bosh took a half step forward. “Ma’am, I’m sorry if that comment was offensive.”
He looked mortified. Somewhere, out there, was a mother who had taught this young man to always be a gentleman, probably backed that up with several swats to a younger Bosh’s behind.
Margaret couldn’t let him suffer. “It’s okay. I actually like camel-taint pus in my martinis, but it’s an acquired taste.”
The soldiers laughed, and the tension evaporated.
Clarence didn’t smile. He just stood there, staring.
The stink of Tim’s kettle drew her attention. She walked up to it. It steamed a little. Inside, she saw a thick, light brown broth. It wasn’t boiling, but whitish bubbles clung to its surface.
She looked up. “Good thing you brought that yeast with you, I see.”
“Lucky me,” he said. “Who’d have thunk it?” He looked like the cat that ate the canary. He’d risked his life to bring the yeast with him. She’d thought he’d wanted to save it for research purposes, to make sure a second colony existed outside of Black Manitou, but this made more sense and meshed with his selfish personality — if he was going to be immune on a ship full of heavily armed soldiers, he wanted to make sure they were just as immune as he was.
“You brewed up quite a batch,” she said. “And I see you have no compunction about giving these men something that’s completely untested?”
Tim shook his head, a gesture that said, Don’t even try to judge me, sister.
“Their choice,” he said. “Come on, Margo, the worst that can happen is they get a wee bit gassy.”
He had a point. Tim had ingested the concoction over twenty-four hours earlier, and he seemed fine. Worst-case scenario, really, was that it might make people a little sick. Best-case scenario: immunity from the horrific infection.
Klimas stepped closer. “As I said earlier, Margaret, my men and I came into direct contact with you, Tim and Agent Otto. If any microorganisms survived the bleach spray, then we were also exposed. Considering we just had to shoot at our own countrymen, we chose to take our chances with Doctor Feelygood’s camel-taint pus.”