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The room waited. Blackmon took her time, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t show any sign of the stress overtaking her.

She turned to face Murray.

“Director Longworth, everything I’ve been told indicates the infected are mindless killers. Could they do more? Could the Converted actually take over a government?”

He wanted to say no because he didn’t want to believe any of this was happening, but his job was to tell the ugly truth.

“Based on what we’ve seen so far, they could not,” Murray said. “However, Doctor Montoya reported there were major changes in the way the disease behaved. I can’t rule out the possibility that the Chinese government is now under control of the Converted.”

Blackmon put both hands flat on the table. “Admiral, take us to DEFCON 3.”

FEET

A gunshot woke him up.

Cooper Mitch.e.l.l knew enough not to move, not to make a sound. All he did was open his eyes. The boiler room was even darker than when he’d entered. Another bulb had been broken.

How the f.u.c.k had he fallen asleep? Had he heard the shot, or dreamed it? It had been so faint, probably from somewhere out in the hall.

There were more noises now, noises he definitely wasn’t imagining, coming from inside the boiler room. Soft sounds of surprise, perhaps of pain.

Cooper didn’t move. Jeff (and his blanket-buddies) remained on top of him, still breathing, everyone covered by the ripped, tattered brown membrane. Cooper could only see a foot or so above the floor; his view consisted of the dead bald man and some of the far wall. The boiler blocked any view to his left.

Jeff’s body still felt hot.

Coop had to pee. Real bad.

The sound of shuffling feet. More groans of pain. A noise like a yawn, if that yawn came from a gravel-voice demon.

Something moved across Cooper’s limited field of vision: feet. Walking near the dead bald man. Feet that were too large for their loafers, so big the leather seams had split. What little light there was showed a glimpse of skin inside those splits … not white skin, not black or brown or tan, but … yellow … the color of bile mixed with sour milk.

I am so f.u.c.ked, so utterly f.u.c.ked.

And then, something spoke.

“WHERRRRRRE …?”

The deep, drawn-out word eased through the boiler room, an audible shadow of blackness. Something about the sound resonated deep in Cooper’s chest and stomach — he felt a fear so primitive it shut down everything, left room for only one thought: to move is to die. He recognized the word, but that voice … it wasn’t human.

A second voice answered.

“BASE … MENT?”

An even deeper tone, somehow more terrifying than the first.

Cooper’s bladder let go. He was barely aware of the wet heat that spread through his crotch down his right hip, along the part of his right thigh that pressed against the concrete floor.