Free The Infection by Craig DiLouie Page B

worry about.”
    “I’ll take care of him,” Anne says. “You might want to check on Wendy.”
    Sarge appraises Todd with a hard stare and a tight smile. “I just wanted to say you did real good today, Kid. You’re a tough little sumbitch, you know that?”
    After he leaves, Anne nudges him and whistles.
    Todd smiles.
     
    ♦
     
    Wendy sits on a sheet of plastic on the edge of the bed in another recovery room, her hands shaking. Slowly, she removes her Batman belt—heavy with handcuffs, gloves, gun, TASER, baton, leather notebook, extra magazines and pepper spray—and sets it carefully on the plastic beside her. She takes off her badge and pins and places them next to the belt. She unbuttons her uniform shirt, balls it up and puts in a plastic bag. She unhooks her bra, grimy and soaked through with sweat, and hangs it to dry out. After a quick but thorough wash, she examines herself in the mirror, brushing her wet, tangled hair. She recognizes the face and body but her eyes look like somebody else’s. Her face and perky chest earned her a lot of attention from the other cops but prevented them from fully accepting her. Wendy knows she is physically beautiful; she heard it said enough times to be sure. She knows it made them want her. She knows it made them angry. Then it saved her life when the man who had hurt her most told her to leave and save herself when the Infected came howling through the door.
    She raises her left arm and frowns, inspecting a thin red line across her ribs. The creature’s razor-sharp teeth grazed her flesh. Not deep enough for stitches but enough to draw blood. Enough to plant virus and infection.
    Christ, she was about to shoot Todd in the head and she was on Infection’s doorstep herself.
    Would she have done it?
    If she had to do it, then yes, she would have. Murder one or help to murder all.
    Would she have then shot herself if she felt herself turning?
    Yes, she told herself. More readily than shooting one of the others, in fact. The realization surprises her.
    Most of the other cops never accepted her and yet she was still a cop. Many cops at the station had an us-against-them mentality about the communities they policed. Wendy was trained in that culture and adopted it as her own. She was still one of “us.” Nobody had as much authority as she had when she patrolled the neighborhoods. Up until she held her gun against that teenage boy’s head, she saw the other survivors as civilians, people who were not her equals but instead her ungrateful charges. She no longer feels that divide. We are becoming a tribe, she thinks.
    Somebody knocks and she tells them to wait a moment while she pulls on a black T-shirt, making a mental note to put antiseptic on the cut given to her by the monster, which carried God knew what germs in its rancid mouth besides Infection.
    Sarge enters the room, glancing up and down and nodding appreciatively. It is so subtle that he does not realize he is doing it, but Wendy can read the language of attraction without trying. She pointedly looks away, pinning her badge to her belt. The soldier clears his throat and gets down to business immediately.
    “I brought you some more water so you can wash your hair if you want,” he says.
    “Just did it. See?”
    “Roger that,” he says. “Well, take it anyway, for later. It’s rainwater.”
    “Does the building not have any water in its tank?”
    “It does. A lot, in fact, but we’re saving it for drinking and cooking. Tonight, we are washing with good old rain.”
    “Well, thank you,” she tells him. “So what’s our situation?”
    “Steve and Ducky swept the rest of the floor. It’s clear. No Infected and no giant slugs with teeth either. I think we’re secure. Now we’re clearing out the bodies and cleaning up the place.”
    “You need a hand?”
    “No, no, no. This is just a social call. You rest. You’ve been through hell.”
    The cop sits on the bed, sighing. “All right.”
    “Hey, uh,