Mitchell wore a tattered, filthy winter coat. Gray slime smeared his face, making the whites of his wide eyes seem all the whiter. The man looked crazy with a capital C. Hell, probably even a capital Z to boot.
Clarence guided Mitchell by an elbow, escorted him to Tim’s impromptu examination area. It wasn’t much: basic medical equipment set up on the reception desk’s remains, a portable table stacked with the centrifuge, a microscope and some other lab gear… just things that could be carried in by hand. The Rangers had thrown in a cushy swivel chair they’d found in the office behind the reception desk.
Tim pointed to the chair. “Put him there, please.”
Might as well make the crazy carrier of what could be humanity’s salvation as comfy as possible.
Clarence eased Mitchell into the chair. Mitchell’s eyes flicked everywhere: left, right, up, down. Yep, definitely a capital Z.
Tim also looked around. Where the hell was Margaret? She’d insisted on this mission. He saw her, over on the far side of the lobby — just standing there in a CBRN suit that was too big for her, staring at Mitchell, doing absolutely nothing.
Why wasn’t she helping?
Tim felt a hand on his shoulder: Clarence.
“Feely, you want to get started, or what?”
Tim turned to look at the shell-shocked Mitchell. The man had been through hell. He’d worry about Margaret later. This man needed help.
“Yeah, I’m on it,” Tim said. He moved to stand in front of Mitchell. “Mister Mitchell. I’m Doctor Feely. Don’t mind this wacky suit, I assure you there is one damn-handsome man behind this mask. I’m going to examine you, okay?”
Mitchell suddenly stood up, his fists clenched, his body shaking with intensity. Tim took a step back.
“Examine me on the boat,” Mitchell said. “Or in the helicopter, or plane or whatever the fuck you’re using to get me the hell out of here.”
Clarence stepped forward, put himself between Tim and the crazy man covered with rotten goo. Clarence had his gloved hands up, palm out.
“Mister Mitchell, please calm down,” he said. “Doctor Feely just has to run a couple of tests.”
Tim moved to the side, used his best soothing voice. “It won’t take long, Mister Mitchell,” he said. “You look very dehydrated. I’m going to put in an IV and get you some fluids, okay? While I’m doing that, I need you to tell me your recent history — when you came to the city, what happened after that.”
Mitchell closed his eyes, shook his head so hard his cheeks wobbled.
“No-no-no,” he said. “All you need to see is this.”
He pulled at his jacket sleeve, slid it up until half his forearm was exposed. He pointed at a puffy red spot a few inches above his wrist.
“That,” he said. “These things pop, and a day later, those motherfuckers die.”
Tim tried to control his excitement. A pustule, the same thing he’d seen on Candice Walker… was that little blister full of hydras?
Slow down, Timmy Boy, do this right. Take care of the patient first, then go from there.
“I see,” Tim said. “Mister Mitchell, do you mind if I call you Cooper?” The man shrugged. “Uh, sure. I guess.”
“Good, Cooper. Now just let me get that IV into you, okay? Your body needs fluids.”
Cooper stared off, nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, but I’m not crazy. I’m not.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Tim lied.
As Tim ran an IV needle into the back of Cooper’s wrist, the man started talking rapidly. His story began with a man named Steve Stanton and a trip out to Lake Michigan to find plane wreckage. Cooper’s best friend Jeff. Some guy named Bo Pan. A high-tech fish-bot. Arrival in Chicago. A night of drinking. A few days so sick he could barely move. Jeff, gone. The incident in the boiler room, where Jeff became something other than human. Fleeing the Trump Tower. Meeting a woman named Sofia, whom the bad guys murdered. The bad guys getting sick and dying. Making the video and waiting for help.
Tim felt for the man. Cooper had been through so much. Forget the capital C and Z, this guy was all-caps CRAZY, with some exclamation points to boot.
But Tim also sensed Cooper was leaving out a few bits of information — rather disturbing bits, based on what he was willing to share — but his babbling tale provided a quick overview on the hydra contagion’s morphology. It was everything Margaret had hoped for and more: the ultimate weapon against the Converted.
Cooper’s story ended with him lying under a decomposing body, which explained the slime. Tim felt suddenly grateful for the CBRN suit, which filtered out most of Cooper’s rather pungent stench of death.
“That’s everything that happened,” Cooper said. “I told you what I saw, so now you can get me out of this city.”
“Soon,” Tim said. “We have a little bit of work to do here first.”
Cooper’s hands shot out, fingers clutching Tim’s thick suit. He pulled hard, his face mashing into Tim’s gas mask, their foreheads touching, the mask’s lenses the only thing separating their eyes.
“Get me the FUCK out of here!”
Clarence stepped in fast and grabbed Cooper’s wrists. An instant later, the man lay facedown with Clarence straddling his back.
Tim just stood there, not knowing what to do as Cooper thrashed and screamed.
“Get me out of here you assholes get me out of here please please I don’t wanna die!”
“Calm down,” Clarence said. “You’re not going to die.” He pulled zip strips out of a pocket in his webbing, and in a flash had Cooper’s hands bound tightly behind him.
Clarence picked the man up off the floor and set him in the swivel chair.
Cooper Mitchell stared out for a second, then began to giggle.
“Die-die-die,” he said. “Am I tasty? Death is die-die-dielicious!”
The man’s screams echoed through the ruined lobby, seemed to make the Rangers skittish.
Clarence gave Tim’s shoulder a light smack. “Would you shut this guy up?”
Tim reached into the medkit and found a vial of etomidate. He quickly prepped a syringe, then injected it into the IV line.
Cooper continued to struggle for a few seconds, but quickly lost energy. He babbled a bit more, then his head drooped.
Tim could agree with Cooper on one thing, at least: he also wanted to get the fuck out of Chicago
“Don’t drug him too much,” Clarence said. “We might still need to move on short notice. Now get to work and find out if he’s got our magic bug.”
Tim again looked across the lobby — there was Margaret, still watching, not making any movement toward them. If she moved any farther away, she’d be out on the sidewalk.
“Clarence, get Margo over here,” Tim said. “This is supposed to be her show, man. We still have to thaw out the bodies from the lobby so we can get blood and tissue samples.”
Clarence shook his head. “I’ll get some Rangers to help you. Margaret told me she needs to examine the room where we found Mitchell. She said that’s the best place to start for environmentals.”
“What? But that doesn’t—”
“Stop talking, start working,” Clarence said. “I don’t want to stay here a second longer than we have to.”
Clarence walked to the elevator. Margaret joined him, as did the SEAL named Bogdana, who carried a limp CBRN suit under one arm. Just before the doors shut, she looked at Tim for a moment, then stared at Cooper Mitchell. Even through her mask, Tim saw Margaret’s eyes narrow into slits of pure hate.