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Dew was on his side, but Dew also had a job to do. Perry understood—he was either part of that job, or Dew wanted him gone.

Perry felt like maybe, just maybe, he actually did deserve some respect. He felt human again, and there was only one person responsible for that.

His friend, Dew Phillips.

“Whatever you need,” Perry said. “I’ve got your back, whatever it takes.

Let’s get this over with.”

PERRY PULLS THE TRIGGER

Before they went in, Dew gave Perry a side holster for the .45. He also gave him four full magazines, which fit into little canvas pouches fixed to the holster’s straps. At seven rounds a magazine, that gave him a total of thirty-five rounds. Not that any amount of bullets could make him feel safe.

Perry walked into Trailer B, Dew right behind him. They both wore biohazard suits. Perry’s felt even more suffocating than before. This was it, his dramatic showdown with the monsters—he felt as if the trailer should have been poorly lit, half dark, maybe a bulb or two flickering sci-fi movie style, but everything was bright-white as f.u.c.k. The first thing he saw was the empty containment cell. Gitsh and Marcus must have hosed it down or something, as all of Bernadette’s blood was gone.

Perry turned left, toward the back, toward the body lockers. On the floor in front of those lockers sat three small gla.s.s cages, each a two-foot cube.

Inside those cages, he saw them.

They saw him.

Sonofab.i.t.c.h.

Things just like this would have ripped out of his body if he hadn’t destroyed them first, if he hadn’t cut up the Magnificent Seven. They would have killed him just like Fatty Patty’s triangles killed her. That’s how close he’d come to death. His body shook. He forced himself to look at the .45, to make sure the safety was on—he was trembling so bad he might squeeze the trigger without even knowing it.

“Easy, kid,” Dew said as he came around to stand on Perry’s left, close to the gun hand. “Just breathe. They can’t get out of those cages. You’re in control.”

We will kill you.

The hatchlings had grown ma.s.sively since tearing out of Bernadette Smith’s body the day before. Then their triangular bodies had been maybe an inch from top to bottom—now they were a foot high or more. Each tentacle-leg looked as thick as a fat baby’s arm, long and flexible, full of speed and strength.

Kill you kill you killyoukillyou.

Their eyes stared at him, all black and s.h.i.+ny and full of hate, one vertical eye on each of their three pyramid sides.

His hand tightened on the gun.

Yessss, use the gun. Kill the man.

“Perry, are you hearing them?”

Perry nodded.

Shoot him. Shoot him, shoot him shoothimshoothim.

Their words meant nothing, the delusional jibber-jabber of pure evil. The hatchlings were just worker ants—Chelsea was the queen.

“Where is she?” Perry said.

Silence.