Roger made a bee line for the compound, his eyes constantly turning back to Hatcher. “Without an X-ray, Vicky can’t tell if they’re actually broken or not, can she?”
Hatcher shook his head slowly. “No, but the treatment is the same.” He pushed himself up higher in the seat and used his arms to brace his body from the shock of the truck driving over the rough patches.
“Hold on buddy. I’ll get you there as soon as I can.”
“Smoother is better than fast.” Hatcher gave him a tight lipped smile. “I’d rather take our time and not hit any more bumps than absolutely necessary.”
Roger nodded and let his foot off the gas. “Sorry man. I was just worried.” He slowed the truck and hung an arm out of the open window. “Slow and steady wins the race.”
Hatcher leaned his head back and nodded. “That’s the ticket.”
Broussard set the culture aside and used a sterile swab to retrieve a sample. He sighed to himself at the unusual growth rate and knew before he ever tested it that she would test positive for the treatment form of strep.
He smeared the sample along the bottom of the test tube and added the reagents, shaking the tube to ensure that the bacteria was fully mixed. He placed it into the heater and cranked it to two hundred-two degrees Fahrenheit.
Broussard sat back with a heavy sigh and shook his head as the solution heated, breaking the DNA chains into singular strands that would react with the base nucleotides, effectively copying the genetic material.
He tapped the side of the table, knowing that the test he was about to perform was a waste of resources. The only way she could show such substantial growth in the medium was if she had contracted the much more virulent strain. Still, his methodical mind wouldn’t allow him to simply assume.
He waited while the thermal cycler went through its heating and cooling cycles, knowing that each time it did, the DNA annealed and created twice as many copies than the previous cycle. While the machine did its job, he poured a cup of coffee and waited.
After his second cup he began to mix the separating gel media. He withdrew his known base sample of the strep bacteria and applied it to the gel. With a pipette, he pulled a sample of Dr. Chaplain’s strain and applied it on the other side of the gel bed. He placed the gel in the incubator and connected the electrical leads to apply current. He stripped his gloves and pulled his mask off. “We already know the result; why do I bother?”
He paced the lab as he waited, praying that his guess was wrong. “Why does time slow down when you are waiting?” He sat down at the table and tried to focus on anything other than the test. He was alphabetizing the files for the second time when the buzzer sounded. He quickly shut the file cabinet and pulled the gel from the incubator.
He flipped on the black light and groaned when the fluorescent dye bound to the DNA began to glow.
Andre Broussard pushed the gel away and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “We will have to keep a close eye on you, Dr. Chaplain.”
Simon snapped awake and jerked in the driver’s seat. He glanced around, unsure of where he was or why he was there.
He sat up slowly and rubbed at his face. “Fuck me, my head.” He gripped the sides of his face and leaned forward, his head throbbing. His hand automatically slipped to his side, searching out the liquid pain killer he always kept nearby.
His fingers wrapped around the bottle of scotch and he twisted the cap, bringing the bottle to his mouth. After a long pull he sat back and sighed. “No hangover if you just stay drunk, right boy-o?”
He cracked an eye open and peered through the dusty windshield. “Where the fuck am I?” He reached for the door handle and stumbled out into the parking lot. “Oh…yeah.” He pressed a finger to his nostril and did a quick farmer’s blow.
Leaning against the roof of the car, he peered through the driver’s side window at the boxes still stacked in the back. “Better see what survived Squirrel and his scatter gun.”
He stumbled around to the passenger side and pulled the door open. He rifled through the contents of the topmost box and shook his head. “Dead soldiers…all of ’em.” He grabbed the soggy box and slid it out into the parking lot.
Rifling through the rest, he only found two broken bottles; easy enough to pick the glass out of. He sat on the edge of the hatchback and sucked down more of the scotch.
“What’s a feller to do?” He scratched himself and stared up into the star filled sky. For just a moment he lost himself in the endless tapestry of white dots.
A scream in the distance set the hair on his neck on end. He got awkwardly to his feet and turned a slow circle, looking for the direction of the sound. A second, higher pitched wail replied to the first one and Simon got the distinct feeling he was surrounded. He cautiously reached up and shut the back hatch.
Working his way to the driver’s side, he slid into the seat and pressed the starter button. The car came to life and his headlights came on, illuminating straight ahead. He felt his stomach knot up when three grey-skinned and very thin Ragers lit up about fifty yards ahead of him.
“Fuck me!” He threw the car into gear and the tires squealed in protest as he turned away from the human shaped monsters. The headlights of the car lit up a half dozen more as the car spun around, pointing toward the open road.
“Not tonight you sons of bitches!” Simon floored the accelerator and the car shot off between two groups of advancing Ragers. He
