Kaye said. Stella rolled over. “Your face is hot.”
“I threw up back there,” Stella said.
“How far to the next house?” Kaye asked Mitch.
“The map says twenty miles. We’ll be in Pittsburgh soon.”
“I think she’s sick,” Kaye said.
“It isn’t Shiver, is it, Kaye?” Stella asked.
“You don’t get Shiver, honey.”
“Everything hurts. Is it mumps?”
“You’ve had shots for everything.” But Kaye knew that couldn’t possibly be true. Nobody knew what susceptibilities the new children might have. Stella had never been sick, not with colds or flu; she had never even had a bacterial infection. Kaye had thought the new children might have improved immune systems. Mitch had not supported this theory, however, and they had given Stella all the proper immunizations, one by one, after the FDA and the CDC had grudgingly approved the old vaccines for the new children.
“An aspirin might help,” Stella said.
“An aspirin would make you ill,” Kaye said. “You know that.”
“Tylenol,” Stella added, swallowing.
Kaye poured her some water from a bottle and lifted her head for a drink. “That’s bad, too,” Kaye murmured. “You are very special, honey.”
She pulled back Stella’s eyelids, one at a time. The irises were bland, the little gold flecks clouded. Stella’s pupils were like pinpricks. Her daughter’s eyes were as expressionless as her cheeks. “So fast,” Kaye said. She set Stella down into a pillow in the corner of the backseat and leaned forward to whisper into Mitch’s ear. “It could be what the dead girl had.”
“Shit,” Mitch said.
“It isn’t respiratory, not yet, but she’s hot. Maybe a hundred and four, a hundred and five. I can’t find the thermometer in the first aid kit.”
“I put it there,” Mitch said.
“I can’t find it. We’ll get one in Pittsburgh.”
“A doctor,” Mitch said.
“At the safe house,” Kaye said. “We need a specialist.” She was working to stay calm. She had never seen her daughter with a fever, her cheeks and eyes so bland.
The car sped up.
“Keep to the speed limit,” Kaye said.
“No guarantees,” Mitch said.
27
OHIO
C hristopher Dicken got off the C-141 transport at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. At Augustine’s suggestion, he had hitched a late-afternoon ride from Baltimore with a flight of National Guard troops being moved into Dayton.
He was met on the concrete apron by a neatly dressed middle-aged man in a gray suit, the civilian liaison, who accompanied him through a small, austere passenger terminal to a black Chevrolet staff car.
Dicken looked at two unmarked brown Fords behind the Chevrolet. “Why the escort?” he asked.
“Secret Service,” the liaison said.
“Not for me, I hope,” Dicken said.
“No, sir.”
As they approached the Chevrolet, a much younger driver in a black suit snapped to military attention, introduced himself as Officer Reed of Ohio Special Needs School Security, and opened the car’s right rear door.
Mark Augustine sat in the backseat.
“Good afternoon, Christopher,” he said. “I hope your flight was pleasant.”
“Not very,” Dicken said. He hunched awkwardly into the staff car and sat on the black leather. The car drove off the base, trailed by the two Fords. Dicken stared at huge billows of clouds piling up over the green hills and suburbs beside the wide gray turnpike. He was glad to be on the ground again. Changes in air pressure bothered his leg.
“How’s the leg?” Augustine asked.
“Okay,” Dicken said.
“Mine’s giving me hell,” Augustine said. “I flew in from Dulles. Flight got bumpy over Pennsylvania.”
“You broke your leg?”
“In a bathtub.”
Dicken conspicuously rotated his torso to face his former boss and looked him over coldly. “Sorry to hear that.”
Augustine met his gaze with tired eyes. “Thank you for coming.”
“I didn’t come at your request,” Dicken said.
“I know. But the person who made
“I threw up back there,” Stella said.
“How far to the next house?” Kaye asked Mitch.
“The map says twenty miles. We’ll be in Pittsburgh soon.”
“I think she’s sick,” Kaye said.
“It isn’t Shiver, is it, Kaye?” Stella asked.
“You don’t get Shiver, honey.”
“Everything hurts. Is it mumps?”
“You’ve had shots for everything.” But Kaye knew that couldn’t possibly be true. Nobody knew what susceptibilities the new children might have. Stella had never been sick, not with colds or flu; she had never even had a bacterial infection. Kaye had thought the new children might have improved immune systems. Mitch had not supported this theory, however, and they had given Stella all the proper immunizations, one by one, after the FDA and the CDC had grudgingly approved the old vaccines for the new children.
“An aspirin might help,” Stella said.
“An aspirin would make you ill,” Kaye said. “You know that.”
“Tylenol,” Stella added, swallowing.
Kaye poured her some water from a bottle and lifted her head for a drink. “That’s bad, too,” Kaye murmured. “You are very special, honey.”
She pulled back Stella’s eyelids, one at a time. The irises were bland, the little gold flecks clouded. Stella’s pupils were like pinpricks. Her daughter’s eyes were as expressionless as her cheeks. “So fast,” Kaye said. She set Stella down into a pillow in the corner of the backseat and leaned forward to whisper into Mitch’s ear. “It could be what the dead girl had.”
“Shit,” Mitch said.
“It isn’t respiratory, not yet, but she’s hot. Maybe a hundred and four, a hundred and five. I can’t find the thermometer in the first aid kit.”
“I put it there,” Mitch said.
“I can’t find it. We’ll get one in Pittsburgh.”
“A doctor,” Mitch said.
“At the safe house,” Kaye said. “We need a specialist.” She was working to stay calm. She had never seen her daughter with a fever, her cheeks and eyes so bland.
The car sped up.
“Keep to the speed limit,” Kaye said.
“No guarantees,” Mitch said.
27
OHIO
C hristopher Dicken got off the C-141 transport at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. At Augustine’s suggestion, he had hitched a late-afternoon ride from Baltimore with a flight of National Guard troops being moved into Dayton.
He was met on the concrete apron by a neatly dressed middle-aged man in a gray suit, the civilian liaison, who accompanied him through a small, austere passenger terminal to a black Chevrolet staff car.
Dicken looked at two unmarked brown Fords behind the Chevrolet. “Why the escort?” he asked.
“Secret Service,” the liaison said.
“Not for me, I hope,” Dicken said.
“No, sir.”
As they approached the Chevrolet, a much younger driver in a black suit snapped to military attention, introduced himself as Officer Reed of Ohio Special Needs School Security, and opened the car’s right rear door.
Mark Augustine sat in the backseat.
“Good afternoon, Christopher,” he said. “I hope your flight was pleasant.”
“Not very,” Dicken said. He hunched awkwardly into the staff car and sat on the black leather. The car drove off the base, trailed by the two Fords. Dicken stared at huge billows of clouds piling up over the green hills and suburbs beside the wide gray turnpike. He was glad to be on the ground again. Changes in air pressure bothered his leg.
“How’s the leg?” Augustine asked.
“Okay,” Dicken said.
“Mine’s giving me hell,” Augustine said. “I flew in from Dulles. Flight got bumpy over Pennsylvania.”
“You broke your leg?”
“In a bathtub.”
Dicken conspicuously rotated his torso to face his former boss and looked him over coldly. “Sorry to hear that.”
Augustine met his gaze with tired eyes. “Thank you for coming.”
“I didn’t come at your request,” Dicken said.
“I know. But the person who made
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