Sick

And die.

It was an easy enough plan in theory, but after an hour of driving through the empty desert, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He needed to get some rest. He couldn’t afford to crash. Not only would he be unable to deliver the message, but anyone who came to his aid would be in danger of being infected.

Just a couple of hours-a nap, really-that was all he needed.

About five minutes later he spotted an old dirt road. He turned onto it and drove far enough that his car wouldn’t be spotted from the highway, then crawled into the back seat.

When he woke, the sun was high in the sky. Panicked, he pushed himself up but immediately dropped back down. It felt like his brain was trying to push out of his skull. Even his eyes ached.

More slowly this time, he rose into a sitting position. As he tried to take a deep breath, it caught in his throat and he began to cough.

Ellison was not the kind of man who would delude himself. Sure, he could have pretended he’d only caught a bad cold or maybe the flu. But the truth was he was infected with the KV-27a virus, and unless he had an immunity that worked like Josie Ash’s had, he was going to die.

He forced himself to get back behind the wheel. His time was severely limited now. He figured he had no more than two hours to find an isolated pay phone. If he failed to locate one in that time, he would have to forget about the call and concentrate on eliminating his chance of infecting anyone else.

“Should have stayed in the building,” the disease in his head said. “Should have let the fire take you.”

He ignored it and used every ounce of concentration to keep the car on the road. Even then, he often found himself veering dangerously close to the opposite lane and then overcompensating by weaving back the other way and onto the shoulder. God forbid he came across a highway patrol car. They’d pull him over for sure.

He passed a few possibilities, wide spots in the road with two or three restaurants and a gas station, but there were always too many people around. After ninety minutes, he started to think he would have to give up the idea of reporting in. But then he saw a little gas station along an otherwise deserted stretch of the highway.

Though it looked like it was open, there were no customers out front.

He slowed, then turned into the large dirt lot next to the building, his eyes scanning left and right, looking for…

There.

The pay phone was mounted to a wooden pole a good twenty feet away from the station.

He pulled to a stop and stumbled out of the car, then cursed himself for not having gotten closer to the phone. When he finally got to the pole, he leaned against it and caught his breath. Closing his eyes, he focused on the number, trying to make sure he remembered it correctly. His headache wasn’t helping, but once he repeated the number several times, he knew he had it.

He fished some coins out of his pocket, then picked up the receiver and dropped several quarters into the slot on top. His strength waning, he punched in the number, making sure he made no mistakes.

One ring. Two.

Then aclickand abeep.

“This is Ellison,” he said. “Barker Flats blown. I repeat Barker Flats blown. Littlefield initiated self-destruct. When the power came back on, the virus they were pumping into the target’s cell leaked into the rest of the building. Littlefield and three others eliminated with the facility. Target already freed at that point, but Littlefield discovered the escape and planned to report it to Karp. No confirmation if he was able to do that, but it seems likely.” He paused. “I’m…I’m infected, so this will be my last message.”

He hung up.

The phone was going to have to be destroyed, too, but that would be easy enough. He would just need to move the car right up against the pole before he lit everything on fire.

He went around to the trunk of Major Littlefield’s sedan. Inside he found more than he had hoped for. Not only were there flares that he could use to help get the fire going, but there was also a hard plastic case containing a Colt.45 automatic pistol.

It was a lot more power than Ellison needed, but then again, it wouldn’t matter when he pulled the trigger. At least he wouldn’t have to crawl out into the desert now.

He stripped off his shirt, then fed as much of it as he could into the gas tank. Once he had the car in position, his plan was to use a flare to light the shirt on fire. He would then get into the car and throw the flare into the back seat to ignite the interior. As soon as he saw the fire catch, he would put the gun to his head and pull the trigger.

What he hadn’t counted on were the three sedans that raced off the road and skidded to a stop twenty feet away, before he could get back behind the wheel and move the car into place.

Men jumped out of nearly every door, most with guns pointed directly at him.

“Stay right there, Mr. Ellison.”

“They know who you are,” the disease whispered in his mind. “They found you. See? You should have just stayed.”

“Get back!” Ellison yelled at the men. “I’m infected. Doesn’t matter if you shoot me or not. You come near me, your life is over.”

None of the men flinched.

“I’m not going to be a problem,” Ellison told them, then coughed. “Just let me take care of this, and it’ll all be over.”

He stepped around the back of the sedan and headed for the driver’s door.

“Stop. Now!” someone shouted.

But Ellison couldn’t stop. He had to finish.

“Stop!”

Ellison put his hand on the door handle and started to pull it open.

The first bullet caught him in the shoulder, knocking him into the car. The second went through his kidney and exited just below his ribs. He slipped to the ground, rolling onto his back as he did, and ended up looking at the group of armed men.

They parted in the middle, and two new men dressed in protective gear stepped through. Not biohazard suits, though-something different. Then Ellison saw the thin rifles in the men’s hands, rifles with hoses attached to one end running around to tanks on the men’s backs.

Not rifles. Flamethrowers.

Oh, thank God.

There was awhoosh, then short flames flickered at the end of each nozzle.

The two men took a few steps closer to the car and raised their weapons.

“The phone,” Ellison whispered as loudly as he could. “Don’t forget the phone.”

But his words were lost as long streams of flames roared out from each weapon.

“Stop there, stop there,” Chuck said, pointing down the road at the lonely gas station.

“Why?” his friend Len asked. They were supposed to be meeting some other friends for a couple nights of camping, but somewhere they’d made a wrong turn. Neither of them could get a signal on their cell phones so using their GPS wasn’t an option.

“I gotta go.”

“Again?”

“What do you mean, ‘again’? That was like two hours ago. I’ve drank two sodas since then.”

Len pulled into the station, figuring while Chuck did his business he could at least find out where they were. As he got out of the car he caught a faint whiff of barbeque. Maybe they were selling sandwiches inside. He could use something to eat.

Chuck raced ahead like his bladder was about to burst.

“Next time, don’t drink so much!” Len yelled after him.

Without looking back, Chuck flipped him off as he entered the store. Len reached the door a moment later, and was starting to pull it open when his friend came running back outside. He looked at Len, opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then quickly bent over and threw up on the asphalt.

Len jumped back. “What the hell? I didn’t know you were sick.” As soon as his friend seemed to finish, he