Pandemic by Scott Sigler Read Free Book Online Page B

come with me, because I don’t care if you saved the world once, twice, or fifty fucking times” — he shook the cane head at her, the ceiling light glinting dully off the brass helix — “
your job isn’t done
. You got theshort end of the stick, Margaret. Maybe you’re not a soldier, but you man the wall just like the rest of us.”
    Not a soldier
. She looked at Clarence. For a moment, she wondered if he’d talked to Murray earlier, if they’d set that up together, but the look on his face said otherwise. Her husband was ashamed he’d said that to her.
    She loved him. If this thing got out, he would die. So would she. So would everyone.
    You got the short end of the stick, Margaret
.
    Murray was right. She hated him for it.
    “I’ll go,” she said.
    Clarence stood. “We’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”
    “
Hell
no,” Margaret said. “The area is possibly contagious. There’s no benefit to putting you at risk.”
    I can’t take seeing you every day; I can barely even look at you right now
.
    Clarence started to say something, but Murray
clonked
the bottom of his cane on the floor.
    “Stop this,” he said. “You two handle your relationship issues on your own time. Otto is going with you.”
    She turned on the old man. “Hold on just a damn second. If you want me there, then you —”
    “
He’s coming
,” Murray snapped. “Doc, you are the only choice for this job, but forgive me for being an insensitive prick when I say that you might not be playing with a full deck. Otto has been taking care of you for years. He’s the best qualified to keep you focused.”
    “Great,” Margaret said. “So you’re assigning a babysitter?”
    “I’ll assign a midget with a whip if that’s what it takes to keep you from reading blog posts about yourself for fifteen hours a day.”
    Margaret fell silent. Murray knew all about how far she’d fallen. Of course he knew. Clarence had probably told him.
    Murray reached out and took the envelope from her.
    “Get packed,” he said. “A car will be here for you in fifteen minutes.”

HIGHWAY TO HELL
    Cooper Mitchell stared at the accounting program on his computer screen. He willed the numbers to change. The numbers didn’t cooperate.
    The force is not strong with this one …
    He looked at the company checkbook. Specifically, he looked at the check stub, frayed edges lonely for the check that should have been there.
    “Goddamit, Brockman,” Cooper said. “How many times do we have to go through this?”
    There was no information on the check stub, of course — Jeff never bothered to do that. Maybe this would be one of the lucky times when he hadn’t spent that much, when he actually came back with a receipt, when his impulse purchase wouldn’t make their account overdrawn. Again.
    Cooper rested his elbows on the messy desk, his face in his hands. The dented, rust-speckled metal desk took up most of the small, cinder-block office. The “Steelcase Dreadnaught,” as Jeff called it. It weighed some 250 pounds. Cooper could barely budge the thing; Jeff had once picked it up by himself, held it over his head just to prove that he could. The desk had been here when they’d bought the building and would probably be there when they sold it.
    Which, if they didn’t get a client soon, would be within weeks.
    Their building bordered the St. Joseph’s River, but the office’s only window didn’t offer that view. Instead, it looked out onto a bare concrete floor. The place had been a construction company garage once; maybe the window was where the foreman watched his people toil away, loudly growling
get back to work!
every time someone slacked off. The tall, deep shelves lining the walls were filled with diving gear (some functioning, most not), welding rigs, heavy-duty tools and other equipment. He and Jeff hadn’t used some of the pieces in years, but in the underwater construction business you never got rid of something that was already paid for. Never