Germ

He caught the strong odors of liquor and tobacco smoke, and the weaker scents of cleaning chemicals and vomit. In one of the booths, two heads bobbed with the movement of mug-clenching fists. A scrawny bartender with droopy eyelids picked his teeth with a swizzle stick and chatted quietly with a woman seated at the bar. Otherwise, the place was empty.

Vero walked into the bathroom. Donnelley was lifting his shirt away from the torn flesh in his side. He was cranked around, trying to assess the damage in the muck-spotted mirror. To Vero, he looked like an expressionist painting in which all the objects were the same color of too-vivid red: the shirt, the hands holding the shirt, the belt passing through pant loops. At the center of it all was the thing that corrupted its surroundings with its own gruesome color—a wound. The cut was crescent-shaped, its edges smooth. The flesh around it swelled before tucking into a finger-sized hole. While Vero watched, blood gushed out, flowed to the lip of the pants, and pooled for a moment before seeping in and dripping down.

"Oh," Donnelley groaned. "This is a bad one."

He pushed his index finger into the wound up to the first knuckle and growled through gritted teeth. When he pulled his finger out, it made a wet, popping noise. He fell to one knee, threw his head back, and sucked in air. Vero could hear the man's teeth grinding. Above the crimson mess, Donnelley's face was white as bleached bones.

He gripped the sink to pull himself up. Vero helped him. Donnelley turned on the water, doused his hand, then studied it. His thumb flicked at something on the tip of the finger he'd used to probe the wound. A long and deep cut. Blood welled up within its borders, then spilled out.

"That wasn't there a minute ago," Donnelley said.

Vero leaned closer. "Something's inside you? Something that slices like that?"

"Reckon so. Get me some TP."

Vero didn't understand but followed Donnelley's pointing finger to the tissue roll by the exposed toilet. He unraveled a wad. He leaned in to apply it to the wound.

"No," Donnelley said, stopping him. "Give it to me."

He stuck the wad in his mouth and bit down. He reached back with his left hand and jabbed the tips of his index finger and thumb into the hole, wiggling them to make room. He groaned, coughed, fell to his knees. His probing fingers wiggled farther in.

Vero held Donnelley's shoulders and stared in disbelief.

Donnelley yanked his hand back, holding something solid. He spit out the wad of tissue. His panting echoed against the walls of the small room. Perspiration coated his face in fat, runny droplets. Vero gently pressed another wad of tissue against the wound; in seconds, he was holding a blood-soaked clump. He tossed it into the trash and spun off another handful.

With groaning effort Donnelley stood, one arm propped against the sink, eyes closed, his head hanging down. Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose and strands of hair. The rhythm of his heaving chest gradually slowed. He raised his face and stared into the mirror. He looked down at the object in his palm.

Vero tried to identify it, but a pool of gore obscured its shape. "A piece of the car door?"

Donnelley shook his head. He stuck the object under the flow of water. Pink bubbles churned in the basin and vanished. He turned off the water, shoved a clump of tissue into the drain, and dropped the object into the sink. It made a metal clink! then rattled thinly before sliding to a stop against the tissue.

It was black steel, the size of a dime. From its outside edge, three grooves spiraled slightly inward, forming three sharp teeth. A small hole pierced its center.

"What is that?" Vero asked.

"A flechette," Donnelley said matter-of-factly, his voice raspy. He spoke through clenched teeth. "I've read about 'em. Soldiers used something like it for trench warfare."

"Those killers had these in their guns?" Vero was more angry than astonished.

"Probably—" Donnelley's breath hitched, his face contracted in pain.

The man's ability to behave in an almost normal fashion despite the gaping wound in his side was astonishing.

"Probably had a dozen or so packed into each shotgun shell. They'd tear a man to shreds. The car door slowed this one down before it hit me." He rolled his head in a circle, took a deep breath. "At the Academy," he said, "the first thing you learn about a penetrating injury is 'leave it alone.' Arrow, knife, bullet—don't try to take it out; leave it for the docs, who can clamp the artery that gets severed when it's removed, or take care of whatever complications arise." He shook his head. "I couldn't wait. That thing was tearing me up inside."

The two stared at the black disk in the sink as if it were a new species of poisonous insect.

"Tore you up bad."

"Tore me up good. Could have been worse, I guess. Let me have your jacket."