After the Dark by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online

Sam Carr, neurosurgeon at Metro Medical Hospital and Logan's personal physician. Carr was part of that small handful of confidants who knew that Logan and Eyes Only were one and the same.
    Then the couple had settled in to wait. They were together atop Logan's bed, lying there in each other's arms. At first she kept the usual respectful distance, on the longshot chance that by some fluke the brushing of her hair against his flesh had not been enough to jumpstart the virus. . . .
    But Logan said, “No point in us not touching anymore, is there?”
    And he enfolded her in an embrace, so that now she lay in his arms, in their warmth, a warmth matching the apartment, the bedroom itself. She was reminded, strangely, of the night she and the others, her siblings, had escaped from Manticore.
    How odd—that icy night in Gillette, Wyoming, seemed so far from this time, this place. Only the kindness of a stranger—the Manticore nurse Hannah, who'd taken the frightened X5 into the inviting hospitality of her heated cabin—had prevented the young girl from freezing to death before she'd got a taste of real freedom. That tiny one-room cabin in the middle of nowhere had provided the nine-year-old with her first glimpse of a life, a home, that could be more than just an antiseptic dormitory.
    In many ways, Max had been on a search to recapture that feeling of warmth every day since—she'd experienced that warmth in Logan's presence, periodically. Now, with him really next to her, holding her, she finally had that feeling again, in so complete—and yet terrible—a way. A tear trickled down her cheek, and he wiped it away, almost absently.
    By comparison to that cabin, this apartment—contrived out of a vacant, Cale-family-owned building just outside the borders of Terminal City—was a palace. The bed alone seemed nearly as big as the one-room cabin back in Wyoming. The rest of the room's furnishings reflected a spare masculinity typical of Logan—dresser, armoire, and two nightstands. There was a four-door closet that took up much of the far wall. Logan's laptop atop the dresser was turned on, its screensaver of Earth, as seen from the surface of the moon, providing the only major light source.
    Next to the dresser, a small stereo unit quietly played classical music. Max didn't know the piece and wasn't consciously listening, really; but the strings seemed to soothe something within her. If she could just get that feeling to last for more than thirty seconds at a time . . .
    She drew away slightly, leaned on an elbow and studied him—he looked fine. Normal, even. She hated to ask, but she had to: “How do you feel?”
    He shrugged. “I have to say . . . okay, really. Shaken, but mostly by the . . . thought of what's coming.”
    “But it came on faster than this before,” she said.
    They had only been in the bedroom a few minutes, but it had taken at least five to reach the apartment and a minute or two on the phone, reaching Carr; the couple was alone in the apartment, the rest of the group allowing them their privacy as the death watch got under way. Maybe as much as ten minutes had passed since her DNA and his had commingled . . .
    The other times the designer virus had reared its ugly head, the onset of symptoms had been almost instantaneous. This lull before the shit storm confused them both.
    Logan was propped on an elbow, too, looking right at her. “Maybe . . . I've worked up some immunity? From having it before. Might take longer to present.”
    She shook her head. “I don't think so. Didn't happen that way the last time.”
    Logan's eyes widened and he shrugged again. “It's weird as hell, Max . . . but I feel all right. I feel good.”
    “How long has it been?”
    “Since we first touched?”
    She nodded.
    He checked his wristwatch. “Almost fifteen minutes.”
    A tempest roiled in Max's belly, and not even the strings in the classical music could soothe her now. The fear and despair were mixing it up with