“Duty calls,” I said. “Ange?”
In a smooth movement, the doctor stepped between me and the tent’s entrance. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he whipped out a syringe. “Just a minute, Max. It’s not that simple.”
15
I SMILED MY EVIL itching-for-a-fight smile, wishing I hadn’t stuffed my pockets with bacon. This could get messy.
“Max — wait,” Angel said. “He doesn’t mean us harm.”
“And you know this beca —,” I began sarcastically, then realized that she probably did actually know that. Dylan had a familiar alertness, a tensing of muscles that made me wonder if he’d been trained for battle. I guessed I would find out.
“Angel is right,” said Dr. G-H quickly. “This is my clumsy way of demonstrating.”
“Demonstrating what?” I was barely able to keep a snarl out of my voice. “How to get yourself beat up in one easy step?”
“No,” said Dr. G-H. “Demonstrating the wonders of modern science. Watch.”
And with that he rolled up one sleeve and swiftly injected himself with the hypo. It was something new and different, to watch a scientist experiment on himself. I liked it.
Within moments the doctor gasped, wide-eyed, sucking in breath. He groaned and staggered a bit, holding his throat, then sank down into a chair.
Angel was eating a banana and watching him avidly. I sent her a question: What’s going on?
She looked at me and shrugged. No clue.
I sat down and snagged another cup of coffee and a muffin, since it looked like this might take a while.
For several minutes the doctor hunched over, grimacing. Then he managed to speak in wheezy gasps. “I’ve injected … a rare strain of virus … that is … going to cause a rather … shocking reaction.”
“What you science types do for fun,” I said with false cheer. Having grown up in a lab, I associated the words rare virus with hazmat suits. I wanted out of there.
He frowned. “Clearly not for fun. But for progress. Sometimes progress is … painful. Now, watch.”
Sweat broke out on his brow, and his face turned bright red. And get ready for this most horrific next part, kids: All at once, his skin erupted in grotesque pustules.
I jumped up. “Outta here, dudes!”
“No, wait, Max!” he gasped hoarsely. “The miracle is about to begin.”
The only reasons I didn’t do an up-and-away were (a) it’s hard in a tent, and (b) when I did a double take, I saw that the doc’s pustules were already shrinking.
Could I have imagined it? I sat back down shakily.
“To explain it in very basic lay terms,” he went on, more quickly now that he wasn’t gasping for air, “a number of my organs and systems — including the skin, brain, blood cells, thyroid, the entire immune system — are now working together to analyze the virus, produce the white blood cell and glandular response that will eradicate the virus, and circulate it through my body — almost instantaneously.”
“Okay. I can see how that might come in handy,” I said, thinking about the sick refugees I’d seen in the camp. “Especially if it puts doctors like you out of business. I don’t trust doctors.”
The doctor smiled. “You’re getting the picture, Max. Because in an apocalypse, there are no doctors. There are no hospitals and certainly no insurance companies. You are on your own. It is you against the forces of nature, which at this point in Earth’s history surely see it as in their best interest to eradicate the human race. Do you understand what I mean, Max? Let me give you another example.”
He pulled out a meat cleaver.
16
BEFORE I HAD A CHANCE to disappear — fast — Dr. Gunther-Hagen had hacked off the tip of his left pinkie finger.
You heard me right.
Angel screamed. I screamed. The madman screamed too, in pain, then regained his composure.