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He shook his head.
“Wait,” Bryn said. She felt unnaturally calm now. It was—was almost as if she could feel those nanites that had left her body, feel them spreading and working, reviving and reinforcing the tiny army that the first shot had delivered. “Wait. ”
A minute passed. Riley shifted uneasily at the door. “Something’s wrong—it shouldn’t take this long. We have to go,” she said. “Bryn—”
“Are you feeling it yet?” Bryn asked. “The compulsion to spread them?”
“No,” Riley said, which didn’t make sense. They were both nanite factories, both primed to infect others; Riley ought to have been ahead of her on the harvesting curve. “Guys, I’m sorry, but we have to get out of here. ”
“Wait. ”
“He’s gone,” Patrick said, and sat back. “It didn’t work. He’s dead. ”
“I’ve been dead,” Bryn said. “Have a little faith. ”
They waited another full, agonizing minute before Joe’s eyes opened, and he let out that horrible, mind-shattering scream—the scream of a newborn, dragged from safety and comfort into a raw, painful world.
Or the shriek of a soul dragged out of peace and into hell.
Patrick took his hand and held it tight. “Easy, Joe, easy. I’m here. We’re here. Breathe. Breathe. ”
Joe did, big, whooping heaves of air that rattled with liquid. He coughed out blood. The next panicked set of breaths was clean.
Riley nodded and left the room.
Patrick checked his gut wound. It was still raw, but it was already better. The bleeding had stopped.
“Jesus,” he said, and it was half a prayer. “I know I’ve seen it before, but—” He shook his head. “We have to move. Joe, can you get up?”
“Pat?” Joe blinked and, for the first time, really focused. “That bitch stabbed me, Pat. Wish I could say I got her back, but—”
“Easy, man, she’s done. Come on. Get up. ”
Bryn helped get Joe to his feet, and after an unsteady few seconds, he started shaking in earnest. His face went pale, and his eyes . . . strange. Empty and yet very focused.
He said, in a low, rough voice, “Hungry. I’m hungry. ”
Of course he was. Bryn realized with a jolt that he’d used up whatever energy the nanites had brought with them in this massive healing effort, and he’d need food. Fast.
Or he’d turn on Patrick, as the next available food source.
Riley had already realized that, and she came back . . . dragging a body. One of the men Bryn had killed in the hallway. Jane’s men.
“Oh God,” Bryn murmured, but she knew there was no choice.
Riley, expressionless, ripped the sleeve from the dead man’s arm, and said, “Patrick, you’d better wait outside. Bryn—”
Bryn was only too happy to join him.
Patrick didn’t say anything, but the tight expression on his face was more than enough to communicate how repulsed he was.
I did this, Bryn thought, with a wave of sick horror. I did this to Joe.
She tried not to listen to the sounds inside the room.
A few minutes later, Joe came to the door. He was visibly stronger. Shaken, confused, but solid on his legs. His face and hands were clean of any evidence of what he’d just consumed—that would have been Riley, and kindness. The trauma would come later for Joe, she thought—it always came, sooner or later. But for now . . . for now it was just survival.
“Good to go,” he said hoarsely.
