Contagious

Chelsea thought. This was like school. She had to help the dollies build the gate to heaven. Only a special girl could do such a thing, but Jesus loved her, the Bible said so. She could do it. But how to make it build faster. Well, she needed...

We need more dollies! And more chosen people to protect them!

That’s right, Chelsea. And how could you find more dollies?

The answer came quicker this time.

I need to search farther.

Chelsea pushed her thoughts. The oatmeal spread. She sensed dollies, out in many, many places. They were too far apart to come together, and she needed many to build the gate. She needed... she needed at least thirty-three dollies.

Chauncey hadn’t told her that number, and yet she knew it. How? She searched her thoughts. The number seemed to come from the dollies. Was that what Chauncey meant by thinking for herself?

She could do this on her own. She could make Chauncey proud.

Chelsea pushed further. More hits, more dollies... and something else...

... something dark...

... something... mean.

Her breath came faster. She couldn’t move. It was like a dream, one of the nightmares when the boogeyman came for her and she ran and then she fell and she couldn’t get up and the boogeyman was coming and he had that sharp knife and he was going to stab it in her back but it couldn’t be a dream she was awake this thing this monster this giant monster was going to get her.

“No!” She meant to scream the word, but it came out a hoa.r.s.e whisper so quiet she could barely hear it herself. “No no nonono!”

Chelsea, stop, do not connect to him.

“The boogeyman,” she hissed. “Chauncey, the boogeyman is real.”

Chelsea, stop!

The connection broke. Chelsea blinked, then sucked in a big breath. Her whole body shook. Her pants were hot and wet.

She’d peed herself.

Do not connect with that one. He is the destroyer. He wants to stop us, Chelsea. He wants to hurt you. You must remember what that one feels like, recognize it, and never connect with him again.

She nodded. She knew the destroyer was evil. She’d felt it.

Chelsea got off her bed and looked down. Her pants were soaked with

The fear hadn’t left, but Chelsea Jewell started to feel the first embers of other emotions.

The embers of rage.

The embers of hate.

Perry sat very still. He waited for the feeling to return.

It did not.

A tear in the grayness, brief but painfully intense, like listening to quiet static on headphones only to be shocked by an unexpected blast of screeching feedback so loud it made your ears ring for days.

But it wasn’t noise, and he hadn’t heard with his ears. It was an emotion—fear. Pure terror, rich and undistilled by logic or rationality. He’d felt it in his soul. He still felt an echo of that fear. So pure. He hadn’t experienced anything like that since... since he was a little boy.

A little boy so afraid of the shadows under the bed that he couldn’t move, couldn’t look, sure that whatever was under there would grab him and pull him down forever and ever.

But now he wasn’t afraid of the thing under the bed.

He was the thing under the bed.

BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY

Corporal Cope drove Charlie Ogden’s Humvee out the back of the C-17 Globemaster and into the winter night. It didn’t have to go far. Just off the end of the runway, a black Lincoln waited. Four men stood outside it. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking the size of Perry Dawsey.

Ogden tapped Cope on the shoulder and pointed to the Lincoln. Seconds later, Ogden hopped out in front of Dew, Perry and two other men Ogden didn’t know.

“Colonel,” Dew said, shaking hands. Dawsey didn’t offer his hand, and if he had, Ogden probably wouldn’t have shaken it. The other two men just stood there, respectfully silent.

“A d.a.m.n shame about Amos,” Ogden said. “Please convey my condolences to Margaret.”

“I will,” Dew said.

“Status report?”

“No problems so far,” Dew said. “State troopers have shut down all off-ramps to g.a.y.l.o.r.d from highways I-75 and 32. They have a dozen troopers at each on-ramp administering the swab test. Traffic is backing up a bit, but it’s not that bad.”

“Any positive tests?”

Dew shook his head. “So far, so good. The cops have people waiting to go over area maps with you, suggest the best places for roadblocks.”

“What about reports of violence?” Ogden asked. “Any of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds fighting?”

Dew again shook his head. “Nothing reported. g.a.y.l.o.r.d police can’t believe how smoothly it’s going, but I guess the small-town rumor mill has been spreading stories of the body the postman found. Tack on the news coverage talking about what necrotizing fasciitis can do and people are only too happy to cooperate, get the test and get the h.e.l.l out of Dodge.”

Ogden nodded. He’d come to expect smooth sailing out of a Murray Longworth cover story. The slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.d knew his s.h.i.+t.

“I understand that you need men,” Ogden said. “How many and for what?”

“Eight should cover it,” Dew said. “Those bodies they found in Bay City? The guy’s name was Donald Jewell. He was probably here visiting his brother, Bobby Jewell, age thirty-three. We have to go bring Bobby in.”

“Bobby have family in the house?”

“Wife Candice, also thirty-three, daughter Chelsea, seven. That’s it.”

“Stay right here,” Ogden said. “I’ll send a full squad, nine men instead of eight. Acceptable?”

Dew nodded.

Ogden walked closer to Dew and talked quietly so that only Dew could hear.