“Right, ‘cuz movies never lie…”
Roger chuckled at the pair as he turned back to the compound. “Are they on a mission?” Will asked, pushing his glasses back onto his nose.
“They’re going to try to turn that dozer into a tank in case they try that move again.”
Will nodded, his careful gaze studying the machine. “If you want to stop a bulldozer, you need to take out its tracks.”
Roger turned and stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“In World War II, they used package explosives and bazookas to destroy the tracks on tanks. Without the tracks, it’s just a really big paperweight.”
Roger snorted. “A paperweight with a huge gun.”
“Granted.” Will nodded then pushed his glasses back up his nose. “However, the premise is the same. Whether you are talking about tanks or bulldozers, the tracks are the weakest point.”
Roger patted his pockets. “Sorry, Doc. Fresh out of bazookas.”
Will cringed again at the unearned title. “Fair enough, but perhaps we could come up with something as effective.”
“Like what?”
He scratched his chin as he thought. “I know that there are ways to create plastic and putty explosives. I’m sure that with some creative thinking and a few household chemicals we could invent something a bit more…suitable.”
Roger raised a brow at him. “You know how to do that kind of stuff?”
Will shrugged. “It’s simple chemistry, actually.” He gave Roger a smile that chilled him. “But to answer your question, yes. I do.”
Roger nodded slowly. “Give it some thought then. If you figure out a way that we can use a spud gun or something to shoot it—”
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Will shook his head. “Homemade explosives are extremely unstable. There will be no ‘spud gun’ delivery systems.”
Roger chewed at his inner cheek. “Then what do you propose?”
“Land mines? Fire bombs. Satchel explosives…there are quite a few different ways to deliver the payload.”
Roger nodded slowly. “You’re really starting to scare me, Doc.” He stepped back and eyed him cautiously. “Take a look at what we have in stock and if you need something else, let me know. We can make a run for parts.”
Will gave him a curt nod. “I’ll have it to you shortly.”
Kevin sat up and turned to face Broussard. “What happened?”
Broussard closed his book and pulled his reading glasses off. “Are you coherent or is this another outburst?”
Kevin slung his legs off the edge of the mattress and propped himself with shaky arms. “I feel like I was hit by a truck.”
Broussard noted the time in the notebook then stood to take Kevin’s vitals. He reached for his hand and Kevin slapped him away. “What the hell?”
“You’re sick. I need to log your heart rate and—”
“No you don’t.” Kevin quickly came to his feet and swooned. “Whoa…not so fast.” He slowly sat back down and Broussard grabbed his arm, guiding him to the bed.
“Your sour attitude has returned. I’m assuming you must be feeling better.” He pressed a hand to his forehead and Kevin ducked away.
“I feel fine.” He leaned back and blew out a hard breath. “Other than being pooped.” He swallowed hard and shook his head. “And my throat is still a bit sore.”
Broussard jotted down notes then reached for his stethoscope. “I need to listen.”
Kevin huffed then leaned forward. “Fine. Just be quick, will ya? I’m starving.”
Broussard listened to his breathing and to his heart, quickly took his pulse then his temperature. He pulled his penlight out and directed Kevin to open and say “ahh.”
“Is this really necessary?” Kevin opened his mouth and Broussard took a quick look.
“It’s still a bit red, but I imagine you’re over your bout of strep.” He glanced at his watch then raised a brow at him. “That was extremely quick.”
“Good to know.” He pushed away from the wall and slowly came to his feet. “I’m so thirsty.”
Broussard poured the orange drink and handed it to him. “I can get you more if you like.”
He quickly emptied the glass then peered around his room. “Why are you here again?”
Broussard raised a brow at him then pulled his mask down. “You don’t remember?”
Kevin shook his head slowly. “I remember getting a sore throat and then…” He looked to Broussard. “What happened?”
“We brought you here and made you comfortable.”
“We?” He stepped back and eyed him cautiously. “You mean you and Dr. Chaplain?”
Broussard nodded. “Carol and I took turns watching over you.”
Kevin’s eyes widened. “Let me guess…I was your guinea pig.”
Broussard smiled and shook his head. “Not at all.” He stood and tucked the notebook under his arm. “We understand that strep is common and easily spread, and we were working with a strain to modify. There was a…slight chance that you’d contracted our modified version,” he shrugged, “obviously not.”
“How can you say ‘obviously not’?”
Broussard inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. “We engineered our version to be asymptomatic. Since you had evident symptoms, it could not have been ours.” He gave him a tight-lipped smile. “However, we needed to ensure that you stayed out of the lab so that your common strep didn’t contaminate ours.”
“Oh, how thoughtful of you.” Kevin turned from him and reached for the knob. “Why is this locked?”
“You could still be contagious.” Broussard sat back down and slipped his glasses on again. “This ship is quite small, contains many people; none of them would care to share your illness.”
Kevin banged on the door. “You can’t keep me locked up, dammit.”
“You’re not ‘locked up.’ You’re quarantined.”
“For how long?”
“Twenty four hours after your throat is healed.”
“This is bullshit and you know it.” Kevin banged on the door again. “You can’t keep me locked in here.”
“Actually, it’s not my decision,” Broussard lied. “Captain’s orders.”
Kevin groaned then fell back onto his mattress. “Eew…it’s wet.”
“You were perspiring quite profusely.”
Kevin sighed then stood up. He flipped the mattress over and gave Broussard a triumphant grin. “There’s more than one way to
