As she got closer, Anna distinguished a single voice, female, speaking Spanish with an edge of hysteria. “She’s a blue-eyed devil, an abomination! She did this. She’ll kill us all!”
Her breath caught as she edged around the door to find a small room crammed with four beds, all occupied. Three held the restrained, motionless bodies of two men and a woman in the final stages of the xombi virus—at least the final stage when they weren’t allowed to feed on human flesh, and thus starved to death. Their faces were ruddy and dark, the skin sunken over their bones, pulled so tight that their lips had pulled back over their teeth, making them look like mummified corpses.
Or screaming skulls.
A shiver rippled down Anna’s spine. Then an unearthly cry yanked her attention to the fourth bed, where three protective-suited figures were struggling to contain a thrashing woman who was early enough in the disease to still be able to screech and fight, and cast curses and threats sprinkled with the words “demon” and “possessed.”
“Hold her, for the love of God,” said the guy in the middle. “She’s going to hurt herself.” His accent was Australian, his cuffs rolled up to reveal tanned forearms, in defiance of sterile protocol. David.
“Or one of us,” puffed the beefy guy on his left as he struggled to get a strap on one of her wrists. “Or, more likely, the kid.”
“Bless her little soul,” said the third—a smaller figure, female but still plenty tough as she wrestled with an ankle strap. “Where are the meds, damn it?”
“On their way,” said Dr. Dave, followed by, “Got her,” as he pulled the last strap snug across the patient’s chest. Then, flattening his palm on her sternum, he leaned in and switched to Spanish. “You’re sick, Mrs. Espinoza. You’re in the hospital, and we’re going to take care of you.”
Her eyes flashed suddenly, going the telltale red of a xombi as the demon spirit pushed the human soul further and further toward death. But there was human terror in her expression as she howled, “You can do nothing as long as that thing lives.”
The doctor straightened. “Christ. I don’t . . . I need the translator.”
Anna stepped into the doorway. “She’s here . . . I think, anyway.”
He spun, hazel eyes lighting behind his plastic face shield. “Good. You got my message.” He gave her a quick once-over, checking that she was protected. “No trouble getting in here? I left word with the security guys, but you never know.”
“It was fine.” Telling herself there was no reason for the low-grade shimmy in her stomach, she added, “I’m not sure why you need me to translate, though. Your Spanish is excellent.”
Sobering, he glanced back at the patient, who had sunk deeper beneath the virus, until she was barely tugging at her bonds and taking halfhearted snaps at her attendants while muttering disjointed epithets and warnings. “Poor thing. We’ll dose her with our drugs and your herbs, which should slow things down. I didn’t call you to talk to her, though. I need . . . well, it’s probably better if you see for yourself.”
“We’ve got this,” said the linebacker-looking attendant, waving him off. “I’ll get the meds into her and set her up for the night.”
The doctor nodded. “If you have a chance, try to find some family. If you can learn anything else about her and the little girl, it might help.”
Anna was all too familiar with the vague hospital-speak that translated to “don’t alarm the patient, but we don’t know fuck-all about what’s going on here,” but the instinctive kick of irritation it brought was dampened by his obvious frustration. “What little girl?” she prodded.
“Follow me.” He shucked his gloves and dumped them in an overflowing bin out in the tent-city hallway, then pulled out a fresh pair from the pocket of his lightweight coat, which had an ID badge clipped to the collar and DAVE written on a pocket in faded blue Sharpie. As he led her through the human traffic, dodging laundry carts and gurneys with the ease of long practice, he said over his shoulder, “The cops brought them both in this morning after a neighbor reported hearing screams. They found a man and a woman dead out in the front room—they were infected, but it looked like a murder-suicide. The little girl was locked in the bathroom and the woman you just saw was going at the door with a hammer, screaming that she was going to kill the little devil. The virus must’ve crossed the blood-brain barrier, though that’s not the normal presentation. Anyway, we’re guessing she’s a relative.” He grimaced. “You saw what she was like.”
“Scary,” Anna said softly. “And very sad.”
“Yeah.” He stopped outside a closed door near the end of the hallway. There was a hand-drawn biohazard symbol on the door, along with DO NOT ENTER in three languages. Putting a hand on the knob, he said, “This is a rough one. Kids always are.”
“I’m tougher than I look.” You have no idea.
He didn’t look convinced, but nodded and pushed through, paused a moment to survey the patient, and then said, “Come on in.”
Anna stepped through into a smaller room, which was hot and stuffy despite a narrow window vent near the ceiling. The space was maybe ten by ten, and held two beds; one was empty, the other occupied by the heartbreakingly small figure of a child.
She was curled on her side as much as a set of padded, too-large restraints allowed, and barely made a lump beneath a soft blanket that was decorated with smiling cartoon teddy bears in jarring primary colors. It had no doubt been a donation from some group or another and designed to cheer up younger patients. Here, though, it just emphasized the gloom of the shantytown hospital and the pallor of the little girl’s face, which was a sharp contrast to her dark lashes and the glossy blue-black hair that had escaped from a thick braid.
The sight of a pink ribbon tied at the end of her braid—and the smear of bloody fingerprints on the crumpled bow—had Anna blowing out a steadying breath and telling herself, You’re here to help, not hurl. The latter was tempting, though, as the antiseptic-laced smell of disease and jammed-together people went suddenly oppressive.
She’d said she could handle a sick child. Maybe she’d been wrong. Suck it up. You can do this.
The girl was murmuring something, her lips moving almost soundlessly.
“Hey there, Rosa,” the doctor said gently, in English. “I’ve brought the lady I told you about. Can you open your eyes and talk to us?”
“I’m still not sure what you need me for,” Anna said, equally softly. “If the mother speaks Spanish, and the child understands English, what—”
“Lean in,” he said, waving her to the bed. “Listen.”
She leaned in . . . and froze as the girl said, in perfect ancient Mayan, “Ilik oolah. Tun k’eex le ka’ano’ tin kaxtik aantah.” Greetings, seer. The sky is changing, and we need your help.
Oc Ajal, Mexico
Myr and Rabbit didn’t have any big “aha!” moments picking through the overgrown remains of Anntah’s hut, and they didn’t get anything when they spiraled out around the site, searching for a hotspot, a spike in the force, whatever the hell you wanted to call it. Some sort of evidence that they were on the right track.
There was plenty of dark magic—she could dimly sense it as a greasy shiver down her spine—but that was all. Which left them standing back at the main fire pit, feeling like that was where they’d been heading all along. One look at Rabbit’s face and she knew it wasn’t her imagination. He was tight and withdrawn, his eyes shadowed as he stared down at the spot where his grandfather had died. Or maybe it would be more accurate to call the old bastard his breeder. His creator. Gods.
She swallowed as sympathy warred with uneasiness. “What aren’t you telling me?”