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Holly swallowed audibly and gave a single, weak nod. “Wodewose was… it was… designed for adult brain chemistry. Wodewose works on the rea
nimates, not the living. Those kids were already infected by the Lucifer pathogen in the air, and that made them turn. With kids, it… it had a different effect. We never expected it to affect neuroplasticity and neurogenesis. Wodewose crosses the blood-brain barrier. It would do all kinds of damage to any developing neurosystem, but we never studied how the mutated form would affect children’s brains. They’re so different—still growing and changing at that age. The brain doesn’t fully form until age twenty-five. These kids died down here, reanimated, and then were exposed to Wodewose. We never did studies on something like that. If we had, then we’d know the pathogenesis of this and…”
Holly rattled on and on, explaining too much, trying to hide her fear behind the science while at the same time using the truth of that same science to chip away at her defenses. Gutsy had no idea if any of what Holly said made sense, or if she was totally losing it.
“Those… things out there,” said the sergeant in a ghastly whisper, “they’re from here. They’re ours. They’re the kids who were born down here. Now they’re wild men. Wild kids. Whatever.”
Gutsy and Holly were near the back wall, more than fifty feet from the open airlock. The shadows still moved, making distorted monster shapes, but so far none of the children showed themselves. “How many of them are there?”
Sergeant Holly shook her head. “I don’t know.”
From the laughter outside, Gutsy figured that there had to be at least half a dozen, maybe more.
“Why aren’t they coming in?”
Holly pointed to the BAMS units above the door. “The steam jets are toxic. Three of them chased me in here a few days ago, and… well, you know. Now the others stay outside. Waiting.”
Gutsy hefted her machete. “Is there any other way out of here?”
“No.”
She thought about something she’d read in at least a dozen novels. “What about air vents? Can we crawl through them?”
Holly shook her head. “Of course not. This is a biohazard station. The air ducts are small, and there are half a dozen filters. There’s no subfloor or electrical access tunnels. Nothing we can crawl through. The airlock is the only way out.”
Gutsy grabbed Holly by the arm and pulled her toward the cooler. “You take that,” she ordered. “Follow me. We’re going to head straight to the stairwell. I’ll… I’ll do the fighting.” Her voice broke for a moment at the thought, but she firmed it up. “You follow.” Gutsy waved her hand in the sergeant’s face, making her flinch. “Hey, are you listening?”
“Yes, yes…,” Holly gasped. “I just don’t know if I can do this.”
“It’s that or die,” said Gutsy. “You can’t stay down here forever, you know.” She picked up the cooler and thrust it at her. “Don’t drop it.”
Gutsy moved toward the airlock, gripping her machete, ready to do awful things. The laughter rose and rose, as if the infected children knew that she was coming. There was a cruel delight in their voices. A dreadful anticipation.
She inched her way toward the door, glancing up at the BAMS unit, not sure if it would spray her again. Sweat ran down her entire body, soaking her clothes, and it felt icy despite the humid hazmat suit.
There were soft, sneaky scuffling sounds outside as the laughter faded away. Like children playing a monstrous game of hide-and-seek. She glanced back to see that Holly was directly behind her, holding the cooler by the handle and clutching the knife to her chest like a crucifix. Gutsy, despite her doubts about God and religion, prayed in that moment. Reciting the prayers Mama taught her when she was little. The prayer to Mary, begging for help.
Be with us now and in the hour of our death…
Gutsy was crying as she stepped out into the hall. She sobbed aloud as the children rushed toward her, reaching with tiny hands, smiling with small mouths. Laughing. Grabbing.
What happened next was monstrous.
59
GUTSY CLIMBED THE STEPS. STAGGERING beneath the unbearable weight of what she had done.
Her hazmat suit was covered with blood. Her mind was lost in horror.
Her legs went through the motions of lifting her step by step. Her left hand grabbed the handrail and pulled the weight of her guilt up and up. The machete, dripping, dangled from her right, the tip banging like a dull church bell on the edge of each step.
Somewhere behind her, Sergeant Angela Holly followed.
It took forever to climb those steps.
* * *
Back in town, Alice Chung moaned in her sleep and turned onto her side, sloshing tepid water onto the floor. Had anyone been there to hear her moan, it would have sounded like someone in pain. Not physical pain, but something caused by a hurt that ran miles deep.
