Germ

She opened her eyes, looking for the devil's head in the shadows above. Optimism was the last thing she needed right now. It would turn to disappointment when Kendrick's help turned out to be insufficient or nonexistent. The disappointment would turn to depression, which would make her indecisive and reactive. And that would get them all killed. Better to go into this on a foundation of reality. Rescuing Allen was going to be the toughest thing she'd ever attempted, and success was far from assured.

Determination surged into her chest at the challenge. In the dark, her lips formed a kind of steely smile.

They had entered the room exhausted and had fallen into their separate beds without bothering to undress or even visit the communal bathroom down the hall. A window air conditioner had been on, filling the room with a horrendous combination of humming, ticking, and tepid wind. After a minute, Stephen had grunted out of bed and switched it off. After that, the curtain had settled and the shadows had congealed into the spiderweb pattern she now perused.

Julia listened and heard Stephen's slow, deep breaths. She was considering waking him to discuss Litt's germ or their plan of attack or anything that might help her not feel so small and alone . . . when she fell asleep.

seventy-nine

Allen could not help himself. His mind kept returning to the video on Julia's computer of the man succumbing to Ebola, or what they had assumed was Ebola. The pain, the bleeding out, the convulsions. He remembered the way he had described it to Julia: "Internal organs start to decay as though you're already dead, but you're not. Your blood loses its ability to clot, then your endothelial cells, which form the lining of the blood vessels, fail to function, so blood leaks through. Soon it oozes from every orifice—even from your eyes, pores, and under your fingernails. Then you die."

He felt it in him, dissolving his tissues like acid.

He wished he were imagining it. Eighty percent of med school students experience some form of hypochondriasis—their detailed study of serious illnesses plants the seeds that blossom into psychosomatic symptoms. His roommate had suffered from it so badly, he'd dropped out. Allen wasn't prone to that; even if he were, he thought he'd recognize the difference between made-up pain and real, my-guts-are-disintegrating pain. What he felt was the latter.

The cot's crossbar still pushed into his ribs, but now he imagined his ribs bending softly under the pressure, his liver and kidneys and lungs oozing around it, dripping to the floor.

He opened his eyes. The bright fluorescents jabbed at them. The wall four inches from his nose was painted white. The roller had textured it with fine dimples. A faint brown smudge had remained after the last cleaning. He rolled over, folding the thin pillow to give his head more support.

Someone was standing in his room, leaning into the corner opposite the cot. An angel, he thought. White skin against the white walls. A white tunic draped over the white skin. But no, wouldn't an angel be beautiful? Perhaps not. This one was gaunt, skeletal, its head bald and bulbous. It wore sunglasses.

Allen raised his head, squinted at the figure. It was a man. The tunic was a lab coat, but the distressing angularity of his face and the paleness of his skin were just as Allen had first perceived. He'd seen the face before. The video: he was the man who had approached the camera at the end of the second clip, when Vero was filming the air base and laboratories. Allen propped himself up on an elbow.

The man smiled. "Good morning, Doctor," he said.

"What . . ." His throat was raw. He tasted blood. His voice was weak and gravelly. "What have you done to me?"

"I believe you know."

"I know . . ." He swallowed dryly. "You're Karl Litt."

The man pushed off the wall and stepped closer. His hands came together. With long fingernails he began scraping the back of one hand, then the other. "How do you recognize me?"

Didn't Litt know what was on Vero's chip? If not, Allen wasn't sure he wanted to tell him. He changed the subject.

"Is this . . . Ebola?"

"Did you determine that from your symptoms? I hope my specialty isn't also getting around."

"How? How was I infected?" They may have injected him when he was unconscious, but he didn't think so. If it was an airborne strain, then . . . "Why not you or the other guy . . . Gregor? Why not everyone here?"

"So you don't know it all." He looked around the room, then sat on the edge of the cot. "How much do you know about DNA?"

Allen raised his body into a sitting position. He felt his organs shifting and sloshing inside. He scooted back, slowly, painfully, until his shoulder blades were against the wall. "Not my field."

"As a physician, I'm sure you know more than an auto mechanic. But I'd hate for you to miss the punch line because the rudiments bogged you down. Oh . . ." He tugged a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it up to Allen.