Infected

tape around her arm; if she accidentally cut the suit, she could plug the leak as fast as possible.

They didn’t understand how the infection spread. Other than shared symptoms, there seemed to be no connection between the five known victims. It might be spread by contact via some unidentified human carrier; via airborne transmission (although that seemed very unlikely based on the fact that no one exposed to the victims contracted the infection); via common vehicle transmission, which applied to contaminated items such as food, water or any medication; or via vectorborne transmission, the name given to transmission from mosquitoes, flies, rats or any other vermin. Her current theory was far more disturbing: that it was being intentionally spread to specific targets. Any way she sliced it, however, until she knew the transmission mode for certain, she wasn’t taking any chances.

When Margaret came out from behind the curtain, Amos was already waiting for her. In the bulky suit with no helmet, he looked particularly odd — the suit’s helmet ring made his thin neck look positively anorexic.

She’d had to argue with Murray Longworth to keep Amos. Murray actually thought she could figure out a completely unknown biological phenomenon all by herself. She needed a full team of experts, but Murray wouldn’t hear of it.

She needed Amos’s expertise in biochemistry and parasitology. She knew the former discipline was vital for a.n.a.lyzing the victims’ bizarre behavioral changes, and she had a nagging feeling the latter would be increasingly significant. He was a smart-a.s.s, but he was also brilliant, insightful and seemed to require little or no sleep. She was desperately grateful to have him.

Amos helped her with the bulky helmet, locking the ring to create the seal around her neck. The faceplate instantly fogged up. He wrapped her neck seal with the sticky tape, then started the air filter/compressor attached to the suit’s waist. She felt a hiss of fresh air; the Racal suit billowed up slightly. The positive pressure meant that in case of a leak, air would flow out of the suit, not in, theoretically keeping any transmission vectors away from

She helped Amos with his helmet.

"Can you hear me?" she asked. Her voice sounded oddly confined inside

her helmet, but a built-in microphone transmitted the sound to a small speaker mounted on the helmet’s chin. External microphones picked up ambient sound and transmitted it to tiny built-in speakers, giving the suit’s wearer relatively normal hearing.

"Sounds fine," Amos said. His froggish voice came through somewhat tinny and artificial, but she understood his words clearly.

The hospital didn’t have an airtight room. Murray had provided a portable one, a top-secret Biohazard Safety Level 4 lab. Margaret hadn’t even known such a thing existed until Murray acquired it from the U.S. Army Medical Research Inst.i.tute for Infectious Diseases, or USAMRIID. USAMRIID probably should have been the ones studying Brewbaker and the others, but since Margaret already knew, she got to run with the ball. Biohazard safety levels ran from one through four, with BSL-4 being as bad as it got.

The portable BSL-4 lab was small, designed to fit inside existing structures. Its flexible walls were set up within those of the morgue, almost as if kids had set up a large white, plastic tent in their parents’ bas.e.m.e.nt. She knew exactly what she’d see in the small s.p.a.ce, as she’d left very specific instructions for Murray. She’d find a stainless-steel morgue table with a full drainage system to capture Brewbaker’s liquefying body, a computer for sending and receiving information on a completely closed network, and a prep table with all the equipment she’d need, including a stack of BSL-4 sample containers that could be completely immersed in decontaminant solvent in the airlock, then s.h.i.+pped off to other BSL4 labs for a.n.a.lysis.

Margaret and Amos entered the airtight room through the flexible airlock.

Inside, Dew Phillips was waiting — and he wasn’t wearing a biosuit. He stood next to the charred body laid out on the steel table. It was horribly burned, especially around what was left of the legs.

Margaret felt anger wash over her; this man could be contaminating her lab, impeding any work she might accomplish now that she had an actual body and not a disintegrating pile of rotting black flesh. "Agent Phillips, what are you doing in here without a biosuit?"

He just stared at her. He pulled a Tootsie Roll from his pocket, unwrapped it slowly, popped the candy into his mouth, and then dropped the wrapper on the floor. "Nice to see you, too, Doc."

Dew’s deep green eyes resembled the color of dark emeralds. His skin was pale, his face stubbled and haggard, his suit wrinkled beyond all repair. His mottled scalp shone under the harsh lab lights. Age hadn’t affected his body, not much—it looked rock solid under the wrecked suit.

"Answer my question," Margaret demanded, her voice mechanized by the suit’s small speaker. She hadn’t liked him from the start, hadn’t liked his cold demeanor, and this incident wasn’t helping change her opinion at all.

Dew chewed for a moment, cold eyes staring into Margaret’s. "I got up close and personal with this guy. If he’s contagious, I’ve got it, so what’s the point in putting on a human condom?"

She walked up to the table and examined the body. The fire had briefly touched the head, burning away all hair and leaving a scalp dotted with small blisters. A twisted expression of wide-eyed rage etched the corpse’s face. Margaret suppressed a s.h.i.+ver, first at the very picture of lunacy on the table before her, then at Dew Phillips, who had looked straight into this horrid expression and pulled the trigger three times.