Germ

had a plane waiting. Or a car. Something with bulletproof windows and bulletproof everything. If she attacked, he might cut her down and get away. The only certain way to stop him was to shoot.

But he didn't move; he watched her.

'You're the one, aren't you?' he said. 'The information on the chip. You modified it. Hacked it, as they say.'

She felt herself smile.

'Oh, you are cunning. The president's family was never targeted. You added them.'

'As you said, best not mess with a man's family.'

A plane flew over, followed by a tremendous explosion. It had hit well away from them, where the Quonsets were or even farther. Still, the ground shook hard enough to make Julia's feet unsteady for a few moments. Silt and ash drifted down on them. A hot wind blew past.

'Kendrick's final wave,' Litt announced. 'Annihilation of the base. We'd better resolve this, don't you think?'

'I'm not letting you leave.'

'I can help him, you know.' He cocked his head at Allen. 'All of them.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Ebola. I have the cure.'

She didn't know whether to believe him. She wanted to see his eyes, but his glasses were too dark.

'It's reversible,' he said, 'at least in the early stages. Many people have recovered, even after experiencing severe hemorrhagic symptoms. Once the virus is gone, the body repairs itself rather quickly. The cure restores and accelerates intravascular coagulation, which give the endothelial cells time to reform.'

She could not risk a glance at Allen, but she knew he looked as if a truck had hit him. That was repairable?

Her doubt must have shown on her face. Litt said, 'Even Dr. Parker has a chance. On the scale of heart failure due to the Ebola virus, he is on the early side. His organs have not failed, but his heart is responding to the blood loss and hypotension. He has a chance,' he repeated, 'with this.' He tapped the metal case with his toe.

Then she saw it: movement reflected in his glasses. Silhouettes of legs moving, heads bobbing, a swinging arm. The Atroposes were behind her, approaching slowly.

Litt was stalling, saying, 'You can save his life. I'll give you the cure; you let me walk away. Simple as that.'

A red light, as small as a paper cut, appeared among the reflected cluster of Atroposes. As it bounced and jiggled, another appeared . . . then another. The laser sites. They were turning on their pistols' lasers, and the smoke was making them visible. She counted three bodies, three lasers.

They won't risk my hearing them. They're going to shoot sooner, not later.

'In fact,' Litt said, 'I'll get you two out of here, drop you off at the hospital in . . .'

They don't know about the Deadeyes, and Litt isn't going to tell them. Their lives for his . . . what does he have to think about? And they don't care that Litt will go down with me, perhaps killed by the same bullets that kill me. No honor among thieves. Or murderers.

The silhouettes were now indistinguishable from the other shadow-and-light patterns on the lens, but the tiny red beams dancing at their sides were clear as neon. She remembered the shooting styles of the Atroposes she'd seen in action: they didn't pause, they didn't take time to aim. They didn't have to—they were marksmen. When they raised their weapons, they shot. One-second warning. No more.

'. . . after that, I started producing antibodies.'

'What?'

'It comes from my blood. The cure.'

His glasses reflected what she had been waiting for: the lines of lasers rose and shortened as the Atroposes raised their pistols. The short lines of the beams became pinpricks.

'Cure this,' she said and dropped to the ground.

The silenced weapons spat and popped.

Litt screamed. His blood splashed over her. The knife spiraled out of his hand and clanged against the metal hangar wall—a cymbal clash over the dull tones of bullets plunking into the same wall. As soon as his body hit the ground, she flipped around to face the Atroposes.

They stood in a tight group, their arms straight out in front, clutching pistols that smoked and projected arrows of red light over her head. They shared an expression of vague shock. Then all six eyes flicked to her and the laser beams lowered. The high-pitched whine of motors caught their attention. In unison, they rotated their heads toward the sound.

For the only time since seeing them together, Julia witnessed a disunity in their actions. Two began swinging their pistols toward the nearest Deadeye; the other reeled back, trying to shift his feet into hyperdrive.

The Deadeyes roared and vanished in billows of smoke. The Atroposes disappeared too. In a chunky mist of black and red. Sparks flashed as round after round pinged off their pistols. There were so many sparks, she thought later the gauntlets must have been made of metal as well. The men seemed to blur backward, like inked figures smeared by the artist's hand.

She closed her eyes.

The Deadeyes stopped firing. Their barrels continued to spin; they sounded like dentist's drills. Something wet smacked against the ground.

She turned away and cautiously ventured into the world of vision. Allen was sitting against the wall, one leg completely off the ground in a posture of defense. His hands gripped his head because they had nothing else to do. His mouth gaped in a silent scream. Moving in miniscule increments, his eyes—too big for his face—settled on her. His mouth closed on a frown, then a bruised tongue poked out and slid over his lips. He swallowed. His hands remained in the air. He started to speak, stopped. Another swallow.

'Did you actually say,' he asked, wheezing out a thin chuckle, 'cure this?'

ninety-nine

She had been gone no more than three minutes, and

when she returned Allen was still propped against the wall. He bore a numb, dull expression and was staring at the spot where the Atroposes had finally met their match. She had tried to avoid glimpsing any of that particular carnage, but the Deadeyes had done their job so thoroughly, everywhere she looked she saw

something

of the former assassins.

'They're just gone,' he said. 'They were here and now they're not. What kind of person creates a thing that can do that?' He looked up at her. 'You lost your jacket. You covered him up?'

She nodded. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks still wet. 'I had to be sure. What if he was . . . somehow . . . ?'

'I can't imagine those monsters walking away from any adversary who still drew breath.'

She picked up Litt's case and sat down beside Allen. The bombs were raining down now, pouring into craters where the Quonsets had been. They had to leave quickly, but an equally pressing needed demanded her attention. She squared Litt's case on her lap. There was a single drop of blood near the handle.

She said, 'Was he telling the truth, do you think?'

473

'One way to find out.'

She could tell he was in great pain. His breathing sounded sloppy and wet. Still, he displayed more vigor than he had ten minutes before. Eyeing Litt's body, sprawled flat on its back an arm's reach away, she understood how he felt. She hoped he could hold on to the energy awhile longer. She worried about her ability to carry him to safety if he couldn't walk.

She took a deep breath, popped the latches, and opened the case. Mounted to the inside of the lid were two rows of stainless steel vials. Small labels identified their contents: 'Ebola Kugel 4212A'; 'Ebola Kugel 521 IF'; 'Ebola Kugel 3294B' . . . The last one on the right was twice the size of the others. 'EK Antiserum.'

'That's it,' Allen said.