Infected

2.

Dew staggered out of the burning house. Winter air cooled his red face, while inferno heat singed his back through his suit.

“Hold on, Mal,” he said to the bleeding man on his right shoulder.

“Hold on, ace, help’s on the way.”

Dew slipped on the unshoveled sidewalk and almost pitched into the snow-covered lawn, but he recovered his balance and made it to the curb. He crossed the street, stumbling like a drunk, then slid Brewbaker’s body into a shallow snowbank, where it hissed briefly like a match dropped into a stale drink. Dew knelt on one knee and eased Malcolm onto the ground.

Mal’s once-white shirt was a sheet of red around his stomach. The hatchet had gone in deep, deep enough to cut through intestines. Dew had seen wounds like that before, and he didn’t have much hope.

“Hang on, Mal,” Dew whispered. “You just remember Shamika and Jerome, and you hang on. You can’t leave your family alone.” He held Malcolm’s hand, which felt hot and wet and was covered with puffy burn blisters. The screech of tires split the air as several nondescript gray Chevy work vans slid to a stop. The van doors opened; a dozen men dressed in bulky chemical-weapons gear leaped onto the slush-wet pavement. They brandished compact FN-P90 submachine guns and moved with practiced precision, rushing to set up a perimeter around Dew and Malcolm, around the burning house. Some of the men rushed to Malcolm’s side.

“See, buddy?” Dew said. His mouth was inches from Malcolm’s ear.

“See? The cavalry is here, you’ll be at the hospital before you know it. You just hang on, brother.”

Malcolm let out a groan. His voice sounded whispery, like windblown paper scraping against dirty concrete.

“That…asshole…dead?” Malcolm’s lips, or what was left of them, barely moved when he spoke.

“Fuckin’-A right he is,” Dew said. “Three in the ticker, point-blank.”

Malcolm coughed once, sending a wad of thick, dark blood shooting out onto the snow. The men in chemical-warfare suits hurried him to one of the waiting vans.

Dew watched as the soldiers loaded Brewbaker’s smoldering corpse into another van. The remaining soldiers moved Dew to the last van, half helping him, half pushing him. He got in, heard the door shut, then heard a small hiss as the sealed van became negatively pressurized. Any surprise leaks would let air in, not out, in case Dew was contaminated with the unknown spore. He wondered if they’d have him in the airlock again, watching him for days on end, waiting to see if he showed the few known symptoms or-even better, kiddies-developed new ones. He didn’t care, as long as they could help Malcolm. If Malcolm died, Dew didn’t think he could forgive himself.

Less than twenty seconds after the vans had screeched to a halt, they tore down the street, leaving the burning house behind.