Pandemic Page 130

Jeff turned, extended his left arm toward Cooper.

The hunk of meat dangled inches from Cooper’s face. Juice dribbled down to the floor.

“EAT,” Monster Jeff said. “FORRRR, STRENGTH.”

Cooper gagged. In the same moment, he brought his fist to his mouth, hid the gag with a forced follow-up cough. He coughed again, made it as loud as he could, let everyone see it and hear it.

Fake it be like them whatever it takes be like them …

He looked over at the Tall Man, who was biting into a greasy handful of flesh. Chewing.

Be like them …

Cooper reached out and gripped the handful of hot meat, slid it off Jeff’s hideous, pointy bone-blade — Sofia’s flesh came free with a slight squelching sound and another bomb-run pattern of juice.

Jeff smiled his long-toothed smile.

Cooper Mitchell was going crazy. He knew it, he could feel it, because only a crazy murderer-coward would do this unforgivable thing to stay alive. If he had to choose between sanity and death, he’d wear the straitjacket well. That was the price of life.

Cooper raised the piece of Sofia to his mouth. He hoped no one could see the tears that stung the corners of his eyes, or, if they could, that they’d think it was from the coughing.

He bit down, and tasted her.

BAT TWELVE

“Factories?” Blackmon said. “They’re destroying our factories?”

Nancy Whittaker was the latest bearer of bad news, and her news was a doozy. If Murray hadn’t been so bone-tired, he would have felt sympathy for the woman.

“No question, Madam President,” Whittaker said. “Four hours ago, CNN covered an attack on a brewery in Bakersfield. After that, the Converted started attacking breweries, bakeries and transportation centers all over the country. The methods are different in each city, so it doesn’t look like a coordinated attack. The news coverage must have given them the idea.”

Blackmon slapped the table. “But we protected those facilities! We assigned police, National Guard, even what regular army we could spare.”

“From what we can gather, the Converted know enough to attack in large numbers,” Whittaker said. “In some places, they overwhelmed defense forces. In others …” Whittaker cleared her throat, tried to work out the final words. “In others, it appears that some Guard members and police were Converted themselves.”

Blackmon’s face reddened slightly. “How much production capacity have we lost?”

“Around sixty percent, so far,” Whittaker said. “But the attacks are still under way. We assume we’ll lose at least another twenty percent.”

Blackmon fell back into her chair, as if an invisible hand had gently pushed her. She stared off.

Everyone waited. Murray didn’t know what she would decide next. She’d pinned America’s hopes on high levels of inoculation. The Converted were taking that option away.

“Director Longworth,” she said. “How bad does this hurt us?”

Murray wanted to give her something positive, but there was no way to put a happy face on the facts.

“If our production is cut by eighty percent, our strategy isn’t sustainable,” he said. “We won’t be able to produce enough of Feely’s yeast. In a week, maybe two, even the people we’ve already immunized will again be susceptible.”

Blackmon sighed. She had moved heaven and earth to do the impossible. With one simple, strategic shift, the Converted all but wiped out the gains she had made.

“Director Vogel,” she said. “What is the status of finding other patients who had the same stem cell procedure as Candice Walker?”

“There were ten patients in the trial,” Vogel said. “Eight — including Candice Walker — were from the western Michigan area, which is completely overrun by the Converted. One other was from New York, and one from Germany. We haven’t found any of them. We’re doing the best we can, but I’m not hopeful. We’ve put the word out to news organizations. Our best chance is that one of the patients will see the story and contact us.”

The president nodded, just a little, as if to say that’s less than helpful, idiot.

She turned to Murray “Is Montoya on the line?”

“Yes, Madam President.”

“Put her on the screen.”

Murray did. Margaret appeared, sitting at the Coronado’s small conference table. She looked better than the last time Murray had seen her. Margaret seemed sharp, intelligent, with a serious stare that rivaled Blackmon’s best.

“Hello, Doctor Montoya,” the president said. “It’s good to see you well.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said. “Truth be told, I’ve never felt better.”

Blackmon put her hands palms down on the table, made slow circles as she talked.

“Our inoculation strategy has suffered a setback,” she said. “We might not be able to sustain repeated dosing of those who have had a first round of treatment.”

Margaret nodded. “I’m not surprised. It was too big of a project to work. I told you to pursue the hydra solution. You, Murray, Cheng — you didn’t listen to me.”

“We didn’t,” Blackmon said. “And we’re doing everything we can to track down the other HAC stem cell patients. I ignored your advice once, Doctor Montoya, I won’t do so again. If we can’t find those patients, what else can be done?”

Margaret stayed still, showed little reaction, but Murray had known this woman for years. Her eyes squinted a little, wrinkled at the corners. That only happened when she laughed. Was Margaret trying to hold back a smile at all this?

Chapter end