Pandemic by Scott Sigler Page A

opened an alcohol swab, rubbed down the pad of her thumb, then pressed the tube’s tip against it. She heard a tiny
click
, felt a sharp poke. She lifted the tube, looked at it: the needle had retracted. A small smear of her blood remained on the unit’s flat end.
    The yellow light started to flash. She had a brief, intense flash of fear … 
what if she’d already caught the disease
? What if the light turned red? The yellow flashing slowed. The tiniest mistake could make her change, turn her into a killer, it could—
    The green light blinked on.
    Margaret let out a long breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She was right back in it again, dead center in the hot zone.
    Clarence picked up the second box, repeated Margaret’s actions. In seconds, his test flashed green.
    The airlock door slid open with a light hiss of air. The blond man stepped out. He all but ignored Clarence in his rush to offer Margaret an overly excited handshake.
    “I’m Tim Feely,” he said. “Biology, mostly, but also regular-old doctorin’ when it’s needed.”
    His hands felt soft.
    “I’m Margaret Montoya.”
    He threw his head back and laughed. A genuine,
I don’t care what anybody thinks
laugh. In a bar or on a date, this one would be quite the charmer.
    “I
know
who you are,” he said. He turned to Clarence. “As if I don’t know who she is, right?” He turned back to Margaret, his moves twitchy, like a bird’s. “
Everyone
knows. You’re the woman who saved the world. Thanks for that, by the way.”
    He wasn’t being sarcastic — he meant it, said it with real admiration. On the Internet and the news talk shows, no one thanked her. But this man had.
    Tim bowed with a flourish, gestured toward the airlock. “Come one, come all, to the midnight ball.
Fuck
am I glad to have some help down here.”
    “Thank you,” Margaret said. “That’s quite a welcome.”
    “I try, I try,” Tim said. He tilted his head toward Clarence. “Who’s the stiff?”
    Margaret noticed that Tim was trying — and failing — not to stare at her breasts.
    “Agent Clarence Otto,” she said. “My husband.”
    Tim looked Clarence up and down, and not in the same way he’d scoped out Margaret.
    “Nice suit,” Tim said. “Not many suits in lab work. I don’t suppose you can do anything down here that’s actually helpful?”
    “You never know,” Clarence said. “Sometimes shooting people is a useful skill.”
    Tim rolled his eyes. “Oh, great, an action hero. That will come in handy among all the dead bodies. Come on in. Let me give you the tour. After you, m’lady.”
    She stepped into the airlock, faced an interior door. Clarence and Tim followed. Margaret glanced around, saw drains in the floor and the familiar nozzles and vents — the airlock doubled as a decontamination chamber.
    “The lab complex has a slightly negative internal pressure,” Tim said as he shut the exterior door and cycled the airlock. “Anything punches a hole in the wall, outside air comes in, any cooties we might have don’t go out. Plus when you need that extra-clean feeling, this baby gives you a little chlorine, a little sodium, a little oxygen … all the things a growing boy needs.”
    Clarence’s nose wrinkled in a look of confusion. “What are you talking about?”
    “Bleach,” Margaret said. “The nozzles spray bleach.”
    Clarence looked annoyed. Maybe he felt dumb for not getting Tim’s reference. Clarence hated to feel dumb.
    The internal door opened. After so much battleship gray, Margaret was surprised to see white walls and floors. Framed prints added color, as did potted plants.
    “This is the living section,” Tim said. “All the comforts of home while floating on an inland sea.”
    The place looked like the lobby of a small, posh hotel: couches, chairs, a table with a chess set ready for play, a huge, flat-panel monitor up on the wall. Soft overhead lighting made things look, well,
cozy
. It didn’t feel like being