Free The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton

night. You’d think they would have stopped to put on a jacket, or a raincoat. Something to keep warm.”
    “Maybe they were in a hurry.”
    “To do what?” Burton said.
    “To see something,” Stone said, with a helpless shrug.
    Burton bent over the first body they came to. “Odd,” he said. “Look at the way this fellow is clutching his chest. Quite a few of them are doing that.”
    Looking at the bodies, Stone saw that the hands of many were pressed to their chests, some flat, some clawing.
    “They didn’t seem to be in pain,” Stone said. “Their faces are quite peaceful.”
    “Almost astonished, in fact,” Burton nodded. “These people look cut down, caught in midstride. But clutching their chests.”
    “Coronary?” Stone said.
    “Doubt it. They should grimace—it’s painful. The same with a pulmonary embolus.”
    “If it was fast enough, they wouldn’t have time.”
    “Perhaps. But somehow I think these people died a painless death. Which means they are clutching their chests because—”
    “They couldn’t breathe,” Stone said.
    Burton nodded. “It’s possible we’re seeing asphyxiation. Rapid, painless, almost instantaneous asphyxiation. But I doubt it. If a person can’t breathe, the first thing he does is loosen his clothing, particularly around the neck and chest. Look at that man there—he’s wearing a tie, and he hasn’t touched it. And that woman with the tightly buttoned collar.”
    Burton was beginning to regain his composure now, after the initial shock of the town. He was beginning to think clearly. They walked up to the van, standing in the middle of the street, its lights still shining weakly. Stone reached in to turn off the lights. He pushed the stiff body of the driver back from the wheel and read the name on the breast pocket of the parka.
    “Shawn.”
    The man sitting rigidly in the back of the van was a private named Crane. Both men were locked in rigor mortis. Stone nodded to the equipment in the back.
    “Will that still work?”
    “I think so,” Burton said.
    “Then let’s find the satellite. That’s our first job. We can worry later about—”
    He stopped. He was looking at the face of Shawn, who had obviously pitched forward hard onto the steering wheel at the moment of death. There was a large, arc-shaped cut across his face, shattering the bridge of his nose and tearing the skin.
    “I don’t get it,” Stone said.
    “Get what?” Burton said.
    “This injury. Look at it.”
    “Very clean,” Burton said. “Remarkably clean, in fact. Practically no bleeding …”
    Then Burton realized. He started to scratch his head in astonishment, but his hand was stopped by the plastic helmet.
    “A cut like that,” he said, “on the face. Broken capillaries, shattered bone, torn scalp veins—it should bleed like hell.”
    “Yes,” Stone said. “It should. And look at the other bodies. Even where the vultures have chewed at the flesh: no bleeding.”
    Burton stared with increasing astonishment. None of the bodies had lost even a drop of blood. He wondered why they had not noticed it before.
    “Maybe the mechanism of action of this disease—”
    “Yes,” Stone said. “I think you may be right.” He grunted and dragged Shawn out of the van, working to pull the stiff body from behind the wheel. “Let’s get that damned satellite,” he said. “This is really beginning to worry me.”
    Burton went to the back and pulled Crane out through the rear doors, then climbed in as Stone turned the ignition. The starter turned over sluggishly, and the engine did not catch.
    Stone tried to start the van for several seconds, then said, “I don’t understand. The battery is low, but it should still be enough—”
    “How’s your gas?” Burton said.
    There was a pause, and Stone swore loudly. Burton smiled, and crawled out of the back. Together they walked up the street to the gas station, found a bucket, and filled it with gas from the pump after spending