Pocket Apocalypse
Page 45

“This isn’t going to do at all,” I said, scowling. They could lock me in here at night, but during the day, I was going to need to be allowed out. I couldn’t do my research without a working Internet connection and access to my books; I couldn’t mix more of the only treatment that stood a chance of keeping me human without proper equipment. No matter how I looked at things, I couldn’t stay here.
The attached bathroom was as small as possible while still holding toilet, sink, and shower, and the shower left no room for me to keep my dressings dry. Angelo didn’t return with the promised plastic sheeting. I wasn’t really surprised.
In the end, I had to settle for a sponge bath at the sink. There was no mirror. Someone who wanted out of their situation could use broken glass as a weapon just as easily as they could use it as an instrument of suicide; it was too risky. I could understand every decision that had gone into preparing this facility, and I could even understand why they had continued to seem like good ideas after people began being bitten. But this simply would not stand. People who were locked up in conditions this tight for a disease with this long of an incubation period would worry themselves to death long before they showed a single symptom.
When I was clean enough that I was willing to live with myself, I returned to the main room and stretched out on the bed, resting my injured arm on my chest and tucking my right hand behind my head. War is war, no matter what form it takes, and when you’re at war, you get your sleep where you can find it. I closed my eyes and went under in a matter of minutes.
My dreams were full of teeth.
The sound of the door being unlocked jerked me out of my fitful doze. I sat up, my right hand going to the knife at my belt, and waited as the door swung open and Shelby stepped into the room. The mice riding on her shoulders gave a subdued cheer when they saw me.
“Brought you some visitors,” she said.
“Shelby.” I sat up straighter, letting go of my knife in order to run my fingers through my hair. It was still mud-caked, despite my attempts at a bath; I probably looked like some sort of horrifying genetic experiment involving a lab tech and a hedgehog. “I didn’t think they’d let you come to see me.”
“Oh, they weren’t going to,” she said, taking a step forward before crouching down to let the mice run off of her and onto the floor. “Dad came up with a good dozen reasons why I was never going to see you again, and Mum as good as said I’d let myself be swayed by emotion and let you out of here if I was the one to bring you the mice. It was a roaring argument; you should’ve been there with popcorn. Not that you would have enjoyed it much, since it was your fate we were mulling over, but at least you would’ve had popcorn.”
“HAIL!” cheered the mice, with more enthusiasm this time. They scampered across the floor and swarmed up my legs, running the length of my body to get to my shoulders, where they spread out like a tiny prison lineup. They managed to avoid stepping on any of my actual wounds, although two of the six ran down my arm to sniff at the gauze.
One of them squeaked something too shrill for me to understand. The other four went to join the investigation. That was . . . probably something I would need to worry about in a minute. I turned my attention back to Shelby, who was still in her crouch, looking nonplussed by the activity on my arm.
“What made them change their minds?” I asked.
“I pointed out that if I didn’t bring the mice, someone else would have to convince them to move,” she said.
“Hail the Unpredictable Priestess!” piped one of the mice, drawing a cheer from the others before they went back to studying my wounds.
Shelby blinked. “That’s a new one.”
“That’s . . . yeah.” I shook my head. “About what you said back at the med station—”
“Hold that thought: the mice weren’t the only reason I was allowed to come here.”
I swallowed a groan. “I should have known there was something else going on. What is it? Are you under orders to shoot me?”
“No. But I thought you might like to meet your doctor.” Shelby turned back to the door and called, “He’s decent, wearing trousers and everything. You can come on in.”
“Thank you for the confirmation of trousers,” said a mild female voice. Its owner followed it into the room: a tall, slender woman of apparently Indian descent, dressed in tan slacks, sensible shoes, and a blue medical scrub top. Her long black hair was braided back from her face and tied off with a red hair tie, and if not for the way the mice stiffened as soon as she entered, I might have mistaken her for human. She smiled as she approached the bed where I sat, holding out her hand. “Dr. Helen Jalali, at your service. My cousin speaks well of you.”
“Is your cousin Kumari Sarpa, by any chance?” I asked, taking her hand and shaking it.
Her smile broadened, showing the oddly curved sides of her incisors. It was a minor physiological difference, easily overlooked—unless she decided to extend her fangs. “She is. However did you guess?” She had a strong Australian accent, confirming my suspicions that the wadjet had been unable to resist establishing a community here. It was perfect for them: no Covenant, lots of space, no native cobras to complicate the issue, and plenty of venomous snakes they could eat without feeling bad about their dietary choices. Australia and Arizona were the modern wadjet’s dream homes.
“I had a hunch.” I released her hand. “Did Shelby tell you what was going on?”
“Yes, and I was fascinated to hear that we have a lycanthropy-w outbreak in our own backyards.” Helen slanted a narrow-eyed glance at Shelby. “No one thought to notify the local cryptid populations. We don’t rank for ‘need to know’ information, it seems.”
Shelby held out her hands, palms facing Helen. “Don’t shoot the messenger, all right? I’ve been in America the last eighteen months. I haven’t been making any decisions about who tells what to who—and besides, I didn’t even know you were here.”
“No, but you were here before that, and you never came to tell us when there was a crisis,” Helen replied. She didn’t sound angry; just tired, like this was a conversation she had often had with herself, and now felt obligated to share with an actual person. “This place is less than four kilometers from my house. We weren’t hiding ourselves from you; you just didn’t care. I have kids, you know. They could’ve done with knowing that there was a group of rangers, however misguided, close enough to keep them safe.”