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Because this corridor was mostly blacked out…and because it seemed so empty and quiet. And that just made it fairly creak with imminence, as if the silence were an arranged prelude to an attack.

I’m going from paranoid to having crazy thoughts. The amphetamines turning to crap in my bloodstream.

There was a noise from a door, to his left. He turned the gunlight on the door. STORAGE, it said. A cough from in there. A noise that might’ve been a sob. Something or someone was definitely in there.

He could go and get Sarge…but Sarge was on the other side of the compound — and judging by the bursts of gunfire coming from that way, the Kid figured Sarge’s hunt was yielding up some game. He was busy.

And if he went back for Sarge, he’d look like a pussy. Was Sarge calling for backup every time he ran into the enemy?

As if replying in the negative, another burst of gunfire echoed down the hallways to him…

Okay. So he was going to check out this storage room on his own. The door was narrow. If they came through it, they’d come one at a time. The Kid would be ready.

Aim for the head, he reminded himself.

The Kid held his weapon at ready, held his breath, too — and kicked the door in.

There was a squeal and a gasp from inside — but nothing else. No imp, no half human launched itself out at him. It was dark in there.

He took a step closer and shined his light into the small, dark storage area — but the center of the room was crowded with people, scared but otherwise ordinary-looking people, all staring back at him, blinking in the light.

Startled, the Kid raised his gun to fire — and the humans in the room cried out in fear, some of them covering their eyes.

He lowered his weapon and found the light switch on the wall. It lit up about twenty people in various stages of damage and desperation, crammed in with shelves packed with food and supplies. Some of them clutched chair legs, pieces of metal, as makeshift weapons.

“Holy shit,” the Kid said.

Jenna Willits came out from the crowd — the Kid recognized her. She’d been working with Samantha Grimm in the infirmary.

Her eyes were haunted, as if she were staring in disbelief at something she’d seen, something that stayed before her eyes no matter what she looked at.

“My baby…” She licked her lips. “They took my baby…” She said it as if she still couldn’t believe it was true. “They took the baby…please help us.”

She’d lost her husband, the Kid remembered — now it seemed like she’d lost a child, too. This thing was tough — but in the Navy he’d seen refugees, running from war and revolution, carrying dead children in their arms so they could find a proper place for a burial; he’d seen old people left lying in ditches to die, to save on food supplies, so the younger ones could have a chance to live. That was life for a lot of the world. But for the upscale people at the facility and the compound, this kind of desperation was a new experience.

One of the older men in the crowd looked at the Kid with a mixture of expectation and mistrust. “Are you here to help us?”

The Kid licked his lips. “Uhhh…”

“Please,” another woman sobbed, breaking down. She’d held herself together for a long time now, huddled in the darkness, running from hellthings who’d once been friends and colleagues, and she just couldn’t cope anymore. “…Please…” The words almost indistinguishable from moans. “…save us…”

The others took up the chorus. “Help us!”

“For God’s sake…”

The Kid was backing out the door.

“Somebody’s got to do something —”

“— we have no weapons —”

“— you have to protect us!”

The Kid slammed the door on their pleading. And ran to find Sarge.

“Sarge?” Reaper called, on the headset comm.

“Yeah…” Sarge’s voice crackled.

“We’re in the compound infirmary, looking over the medical supplies — thought we could all meet up here.”

“I’m not far away…Hold on…I’ll get back to you…”

“Sarge?”

No reply. But distantly, they heard gunshots. A lot of them.

Sam looked up from the wound-spray kits she was sorting. They figured there’d be a lot of patching up to do here. “He is shooting who he’s supposed to be shooting…Isn’t he, John?”

“Yeah well — he got the message. I told him that not everyone gets infected. He said roger that.”

“But suppose…” She looked back at the kits, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. “Suppose he isn’t discriminating?”

Reaper shrugged wearily, suddenly sitting heavily in a chair. “I’ll try to convince him.”

“But suppose —”

“I said I’ll try to convince him!”

Instead of reacting to his anger with anger, she looked at him with concern. “You look tired…”

“So I’m tired…”

“Here…just sit still…”

She went to a cabinet, got out an inst-infuse nutrition kit, brought it over to him. She sponged his arm with alcohol, then pressed the cylindrical inst-infuser against his bare shoulder. There was a flash of pain, then the processed nutrients rushed into him — bringing strength, and a little clarity.

But he still didn’t know what to do about Sarge.

She opened another medikit, found a nutrition bar, and tossed it to him. He tore it open and began to eat, not tasting it much. “Sarge’ll do exactly what he thinks he’s supposed to, as he interprets his orders, and not one iota different.”

“You said you were willing to convince him…” She hesitated. Maybe amazed at herself, at what she was about to suggest.

He looked at her. Then made sure his comm was turned off, before he said, “You suggesting I might have to ‘convince’ him — by killing him?”

“I don’t know. But — it’s not unthinkable, to save a lot of other lives. If he’s killing innocent people. But maybe there’s another way. A tranquilizer shot, or…”

Reaper shook his head. “He’s wary. He knows you’re not on his side. He’s not going to turn his back on you for a second, Sam. Anyway, you’re jumping the…jumping to conclusions. He might be all right with it…”

“Who might be all right with what?” Sarge asked, abruptly coming in.

How much of the exchange had he heard? Reaper wondered. “I heard gunshots, just a minute ago, Sarge…”

“Yeah,” Sarge said, picking up a nutrition bar, tearing its wrapper open with a practiced motion of the same hand. He bit off half of it, and, chewing, went on, “Ran into some of our little genetically fucked-up buddies.”

“You’re sure they were…” Sam began.

Sarge glanced at her — his expression conveyed his supreme indifference to her opinion. “Close enough for rock ’n’ roll.”

She shook her head slowly. “Close enough — isn’t close enough. We need to know. If they’re obviously changed or changing…fine. But if they’re not…we have to wait. Find a way to make sure. Work up a test.”

He finished the nutrition bar with his second bite. He swallowed, and said, “We don’t have time for that. I don’t have time to eat this, and I don’t have time to talk to you. While the compound is sealed, we’ve got to make sure nothing that could’ve been infected can get out.”

“I’m the only doctor here,” Sam said flintily. “That puts me in charge of the quarantine. And I’m not going to allow —”

“You’re not in charge of anything. Neither is your brother. This is now a military lockdown. It’s martial law, Doctor. And for that matter — how do I know for sure you two didn’t get infected somehow?”