Germ

Allen pushed back to look into Stephen's eyes. He touched Stephen's face, as though ensuring himself it was real.

Stephen was stunned by the way Allen's cheeks and eyes sank into his skull, accentuating his cheekbones and jaw. A large rip at the waist of his clothing showed pale skin and a shrunken stomach. He must have lost twenty pounds in the three days since his capture. Finally Stephen's eyes broke away and settled on a bowl of water and a cloth beside the cot. He dipped the cloth into the water and dabbed at Allen's face. The blood washed away, but the tears—constantly replenished— seemed more permanent.

Allen returned to the comfort of his brother's chest. Stephen's arms cocooned him, warming, comforting, protecting. Allen slumped as tension waned and fatigue took hold.

"I thought we'd lost you," Stephen whispered.

An explosion rocked the room. The wire mesh over the light came loose on one side and swung down. Somewhere down the corridor, glass shattered.

Carefully he lowered Allen back onto the bed. His eyes were wide and darting. Stephen had heard that a side effect of adrenaline was short-term hyper-alertness, followed by a crash that comatosed some patients. The alertness could help get Allen out of the compound; they would worry about his crashing later.

He pulled another ampoule out of his shirt pocket, one he'd found earlier: atropine, which would keep Allen's heart rate up and work with the adrenaline to energize him.

He scooped up another syringe, loaded it, and plunged the needle into Allen's arm.

"This'll help," he said soothingly.

Walls shattered in another part of the complex. The sound reverberated through the corridors, which were becoming thick with smoke and dust. He realized that the explosions were infrequent now and sporadically placed—if his own judgment in such matters could be trusted—as if they were probing for something.

"You're doing fine," Stephen said, tossing aside the syringe. He hoisted Allen up, slung him over his shoulder, and stood.

He made only one wrong turn getting back to the exit. The door was locked. Beside it, a black pane was set in the wall. The man who had led him to Allen had put his face up to one like it. He held his own face in front of it, moved it around, tried the door again. Still locked.

This far . . . for nothing.

He had not seen anyone else on this level. The chances of people hiding out here—or of his finding them if they were—were about the same as surviving the bombs pounding overhead.

Then a memory struck him—so full of potential, he held his breath while his mind gnawed on it.

It could work.

He eased Allen down next to a wall. "I'll be right back. I gave you a heavy dose of adrenaline. You all right?"

"Hmmm." Allen raised his eyebrows to show he was. "Feeling . . . a little better."

Stephen took off along the corridor, into air that had taken on the murkiness of pond water. When he returned, Allen rolled an eye at him and grimaced. Behind Stephen, dragged by one foot, came the corpse from Allen's cell. It left an intermittent swath of crimson. Stephen scooped up the body and maneuvered its face into position in front of the glass panel. He turned the head this way and that, backed it away and drew it near. The noise of the explosions escalated. The tremors became quakes. The smoke thickened and stung their eyes.

He laid the body down in frustration, not sure what else to do.

Allen spoke. "Thermal."

"What?"

He said it again.

Stephen looked down at the corpse, wondering where mere disrespect became sacrilege. He straddled the body and began rubbing the face. His hands engulfed it. He was able to stroke all of it simultaneously, from forehead to chin, ear to ear. His thumbs stayed on the bridge of the nose, moving from between the eyes to the tip. He rubbed as vigorously as he dared and tried not to think of the flesh beneath his hands: the chin scratchy with light beard stubble; the lips catching on his palms, the bottom pulling down, the top snarling up, each flipping back on the opposing stroke; the forehead sliding sickeningly over the skull.

He heaved the body up and held the face before the black pane. A bolt inside the door clicked. Gently, he lowered the corpse.

He bent Allen over his shoulder and stepped through. He wondered if another thermal face reader awaited them at the top of the stairs; he turned and held the door with his foot before it could close. He leaned through, got a grip on the dead man's foot, and pulled the body into the stairwell. Then he headed for the surface.

ninety-five