The Infection by Craig DiLouie

right, babe. I’ll be right behind you. I promise.”
    He turned away before she could respond, blazing away with his hand cannon. She climbed down the fire escape and stood in the vehicle yard, waiting for him. The guard booth was empty. From here, the sounds of gunfire ground together like the rumble of thunder. The muzzle flashes lit up the windows like paparazzi. Dave did not appear at the fire escape. The detectives were backing against the far wall and giving it everything they had.
    Wendy stood helplessly, her fist clenched around her Glock, her eyes flooded with tears.
    The shooting fizzled out until the windows became filled with dark shapes stumbling aimlessly, silhouetted by the glare of the station’s institutional fluorescent lighting.
    The entire station was wiped out in minutes and she had not fired a single shot. Her ears were still ringing loudly and the loss of sleep over the past few days suddenly hit her hard, making her feel drained and disoriented.
    Lay off her. She’s one of us.
    She raised her pistol with both hands and aimed it carefully at the windows above her.
    “Help me! Please help me!”
    A woman ran down the alley in a nightgown, waving her arms.
    “Stay right there,” Wendy said raggedly, extending her palm, her nerves raw and electric. Her training kicked in automatically. “What’s the problem?”
    “My husband is hurt,” the woman said, her eyes wild. “He’s bleeding.”
    “Okay, did you call 911?”
    “The lines are all busy.”
    “Where do you live, Ma’am?”
    “Just over there.”
    You can’t do this, she told herself. You need to report what you saw.
    Another voice in her head countered: What you saw could not have happened.
    “Let’s go, then,” she said.
    They entered the house. Wendy felt dizzy. Details in the scene jumped out at her. A pale man dressed in pajamas lying on the floor, bleeding from the head. A table lamp, still on, sitting on its side on the carpet, casting long shadows. Family photos on the wall. A TV with the sound off, showing a worried anchorwoman. A broken pot and the dirt and scattered remains of a plant. A baseball bat.
    “Officer, are you okay?”
    Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the mob run screaming into Patrol.
    “Tell me what happened here, Ma’am,” she said mechanically.
    “I hit him on the head. You can arrest me if you want. But take care of him first. Please!”
    Wendy inspected the wound.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Lisa.”
    “Okay, Lisa, come on over here. He’s got a scalp wound. That type of wound bleeds a lot. I’m going to elevate his head a little so that it is above the heart. There. He’s going to need an ambulance but he should be okay. In the meantime, I want you to sit here and put pressure on it.”
    Wendy stood, fighting tears, and tried to call 911. The circuits were jammed. She saw the couch and suddenly wanted to lie down on it for just a minute. Maybe five minutes. Just a little while—
    “I had to do it,” Lisa was saying.
    “Uh huh,” Wendy said, glancing dazedly at the TV set. The anchorwoman was crying, mascara running down her cheeks in black lines.
    “He was threatening our boy—”
    “This man—?”
    “My husband.”
    “You say your husband was attacking your son?”
    “Then I stopped him. I heard him wake up and I followed him. When I saw him holding Benjamin down and biting him I grabbed the bat and hit him on the head. I had to do it.”
    “Was he one of the people who fell down? One of the SEELS?”
    “Yes. It was a miracle. But he must have been confused because he would never hit Benjamin. He loves that boy more than himself.”
    Wendy backed away, staring in horror at the sleeping man tangled up in his own limbs. Her hand flickered around the handcuffs on her belt. She unholstered her Glock and flicked off the safety. She frowned, trying to think.
    “You can remove your hands now, Lisa. I want you to back away from him slowly.”
    Lay off her
    “Okay,” Lisa