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He, Steve Stanton, had gone out to a bar, met a girl and got laid. He could hardly believe it.

But now, oh, man … his head.

He had to stand up, then make his way back to bed. He’d sleep the day away, or at least try to.

Tomorrow, maybe, he’d feel better.

THE HANGOVER, PART II

Cooper took the wet washcloth off his forehead, flipped it, then gently set it back in place, sighing as he felt the fabric’s coolness against his skin.

He was getting too old for this s.h.i.+t. He was certainly old enough, experienced enough, to know what awaited him at the business end of ten beers and six shots.

Cooper glanced at the room’s other bed. It held one occupant: the waitress from Monk’s. He didn’t remember Jeff bringing her back with them, nor did he remember hearing anything during the night. He didn’t remember seeing her when he’d stumbled to the bathroom for the washcloth. How far gone did he have to be to not know his best friend was tagging a hot waitress just a few feet away?

A loud, sawing snoring sound came from the foot of the beds, by the TV on the dresser. Cooper slowly lifted himself up on his elbows. There was Jeff, buck naked, lying on the floor on top of his jeans and AC/DC s.h.i.+rt.

“Strong work,” Cooper said.

He lay back and closed his eyes, tried to manage his throbbing head. It hurt to swallow. Had he been screaming all night? He wasn’t sure, because he couldn’t really remember anything after that sixth beer.

Yes, he was old enough to know better. After he slept this one off, he’d make changes. Sure, he’d promised himself the same thing a hundred times before, but this time would be different.

THE COOL KIDS

Maybe Tim wasn’t so unlucky after all.

He’d worked on Black Manitou long before it had been a government-owned facility. That had been his first job out of college, working for a civilian biotech company engaged in questionable research. That research had gone south: people had died in horrible ways. He’d almost died himself.

After that, he’d taken the job with the Operation Wolf Head task force, preferring the isolation of a military s.h.i.+p on the water to the memories of what he’d seen on land. He hadn’t actually thought the infection could return. He’d felt protected, safe.

But that hadn’t lasted.

The infection’s reemergence and all the death that came with it made him think he was some kind of doomed soul. And yet, that math didn’t add up.

How many people had died during his time on Black Manitou? He wasn’t sure, but that number paled in comparison to the task force disaster, to five s.h.i.+ps and over a thousand corpses resting at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

Yet he had survived … again. He was one of only three people to make it out alive. On top of that, he was now one of the few people in the world immune to that alien bulls.h.i.+t.

Probably immune, anyway.

For now he was as safe as safe could be, sitting at a table in the Coronado’s cargo hold, sipping Lagavulin with three SEALs who had taken quite a s.h.i.+ne to him.

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