Dew raised the. 45. There was one place he could shoot that the kid wouldn’t get up.
“You sure are one tough bastard,” Dew said quietly, then pulled the trigger.
The round smashed into Perry’s knee, the same knee that had ended his football career. The once-broken patella disintegrated into a bouquet of splintered bone. The bullet ripped through cartilage before it bounced off the femur and exited through the back of his leg along with a misty cloud of blood.
Perry crumbled. He fell face-first onto the snow-covered pavement and slid to a halt only a few feet from Dew. This time he didn’t get up. He stared at Dew, breathing heavily, the insane death-grin plastered on his face.
And his penis was still clutched in his fist.
Dew gently stamped out the flaming map, then picked it up. Keeping the barrel trained on Dawsey’s grinning face, Dew looked at the map. It was burned through in places, but the red line running from Ann Arbor to Wahjamega was still clearly visible. Also in red, a strange, Japanese-looking symbol.
Dew looked at Dawsey-the same symbol, scabbed over and bleeding in places, was carved into his arm.
Dew held the map so Perry could see it.
“What’s here?” Dew demanded. “What the fuck do you want with that pissant town? What’s this symbol mean?”
“Someone’s knockin’ at the door,” Perry said in a singsong voice. “Somebody’s ringing the bell.”
86.
Three gray vans closed in on Dew and Perry, sliding to a halt on the packed snow. Like ants rushing from a mound, biosuit-covered soldiers poured out. The police in the area moved toward the vans, but kept their distance from the bizarrely dressed men carrying the squat, lethal FN P90s.
Margaret and Clarence were the first to reach Dawsey and Dew. Clarence pulled his Glock sidearm and tried to cover the damaged man, but Margaret dashed in and knelt next to his charred body, her knee dipping into the steaming pool of spreading blood. She tore her eyes away from the severed penis clutched in his hand.
He was still breathing, although for how long that would last she couldn’t say. She’d never seen a human being so messed up yet still alive. She didn’t see any triangles on him, but with all the blood and the third-degree burns it was hard to tell. Yet he was alive, and that, at least, was something she could work with.
She almost jumped when he spoke.
“Somebody’s ringin’ the bell,” Dawsey said. “I gotta go to Wahjamega. Do me a favor, open the door, and let ’em in.”
Margaret swallowed hard. She could barely believe her eyes-this ravaged man, whose blood was turning the slush as red as a Slurpee, talked through a smile of sheer madness.
“Open up that fucking green door, you fucking bitch!” Dawsey’s thick hand shot out fast-fast and grabbed her Racal suit, pulling her down until his lips mashed against her visor, spreading blood and spit on the clear plastic. His wide, insane eyes were just an inch from hers.
“Somebody’s knocking at that fucking door! ”
Clarence smashed the butt of his Glock against Dawsey’s cheek, opening up yet one more wound. Dawsey flinched but kept snarling, his eyes burning with the fury of pure insanity.
“Hit him again!” Dew screamed.
Clarence whacked Dawsey twice more in rapid succession. The big man’s grip relaxed, and he fell back to the ground, eyes half-lidded, the smile still on his face.
“You okay, Doc?” Clarence asked.
Margaret fought to regain her composure, her breath coming in irregular gasps. For a second she’d been sure Dawsey would rip right through the suit and tear her throat out. He was so fast, and so damn strong.
“I’m fine,” she said. She stood and waved over two soldiers who waited with a stretcher.
She could only imagine what that poor man had gone through. What kinds of thoughts could make a human being self-inflict that kind of damage? Margaret wondered if he’d provide any answers.
She couldn’t know what terrors awaited in the months to come. For Perry Dawsey, the infection was over. For the rest of the world, it was only the beginning.
87.
It had all happened so fast that wisps of smoke still curled from the freshly fired. 45. Dew had done his job yet again, but he didn’t feel any better. He was no closer to discovering the parties responsible for this horror, for killing his partner. Dew said nothing, kept a grip on his weapon, watched Clarence Otto direct the rapid-response team as they set up a small perimeter around Dawsey.
A third-floor window shattered outward. Dew looked up, saw the flame tongues billowing out, greasy black smoke roiling toward the sky. But he saw something else, something burning, something falling. A brief flailing comet, whipping, ropelike extensions making it resemble a flaming medusa’s head.
The thing hit hard against the snow-covered pavement, flames seeming to splash outward before they roared upward again. He stared, disbelieving, the back of his mind already making a connection that his conscious thoughts refused to allow. The flaming thing stood, or at least tried to stand, burning, boneless legs supported a body all but obscured by jumping flames. There was a small screech, a pitiful thing, the sound a weak woman makes when she feels severe pain.
A thin trail of fluid shot from the thing to land in a steaming, boiling black streak on the dirty snow. The creature shuddered once more, then popped, flaming pieces scattering across the parking lot. The pieces burned brightly like wreckage from a crashed airliner.
Suddenly Margaret was at his side, her protective helmet gone, her black hair hanging about the biosuit, an ashen look of dread on her face.
“Now it makes sense,” she said quietly. “Oh my God now it all makes sense. Dawsey, the others-they’re just hosts for these things. ”
Dew let his mind make that connection, let himself accept the unimaginable. This was no time to start doubting the obvious, no matter how fucked up the obvious might be, and he still had a job to do. The sound of approaching men tore his attention from the dwindling bits of flame. Cops were coming on the run, local boys, state troopers, at least a dozen, with more probably a few steps behind.
Dew turned to Otto and the biosuited agents. All of them stood with guns at the ready, casting snap-glances all around the parking lot, looking to see if there were more of the nightmarish creatures.
Dew barked orders in his booming sergeant’s voice. “Get Dawsey in the van! Squad Three, police those pieces and do it now! Move move move!” The soldiers scurried to obey Dew’s commands. He turned to face the cops, who closed on the burning building. He stepped forward, thinking of what bullshit to say, thinking of a way to explain the creature, but the cops rushed right past the burning pieces and through Building G’s main door.
Bob Zimmer sprinted up to Dew, his eyes on the flames shooting from the broken third-floor window.
“Did you get him?” Zimmer asked.
“Yeah,” Dew said. “I got him. He’s dead.” The cops hadn’t seen the falling creature. Or if they had, they hadn’t made sense of it; perhaps they were too far away. Or perhaps, his conscience nagged him, perhaps they were too worried about the people in the burning building to care about something peculiar but obviously not human falling from the third-floor window.
“Are there still people in there?”
“Probably,” Dew said. “I didn’t get anybody out before Dawsey ran.”
Zimmer didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge Dew’s comment. He stepped toward the building, directing other cops inside, shouting orders to the first cops emerging from the building escorting confused and scared residents.