LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Ohio

      The infirmary was on the first floor of the medical center, an open room about forty feet square meant to house at most sixty or seventy patients. The curtained separators had been pushed against the walls and at least two hundred cots, mattresses, and chair pads had been moved in.

      “We filled this space in the first six hours,” Kelson said.

      The smell was overwhelming—urine, vomit, the assaulting miasma of human illness, all familiar to Dicken, but there was more to it—a tang both sharp and foreign, disturbing and pitiful all at once. The children had lost control of their scenting. The room was thick with untranslatable pheromones, vomeropherins, the arsenal and vocabulary of a kind of human communication that was, if not new, at least more overt.

      Even their urine smelled different.

      Trask took a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his already masked mouth and nose. Augustine’s Secret Service agent took a position in the corner and did the same, visibly shaken.

      Dicken approached a corner cot. A boy lay on his side, his chest barely moving. He was seven or eight, from the second and last wave of SHEVA infants. A girl the same age or a little older squatted beside the cot. She held the boy’s fingers around a tiny silvery digital music player, to keep him from dropping it. The headphones dangled over the side of the bed. Both were brown-haired, small, with brown skin and thin, flaccid limbs.

      The girl looked up at Dicken as he came near. He smiled back at her. Her eyes rolled up and she tipped her tongue through her lips, then dropped her head on the cot beside the boy’s arm.

      “Bond friends,” DeWitt said. “She has her own cot, but she won’t stay there.”

      “Then move the cots together,” Augustine suggested with a brief look of distaste or distress.

      “She won’t move more than a few inches away from him,” DeWitt said. “Their health probably depends on each other.”

      “Explain,” Dicken said softly.

      “When they’re brought here, the children form frithing teams. Two or three will get together and establish a default scenting range. The teams coalesce into larger groups. Support and protection, perhaps, but mostly I think it’s about defining a new language.” DeWitt shook her head, wrapped her masked mouth in the palm of one hand, and gripped her elbow. “I was learning so much…”

      Dicken took the boy’s chin and gently turned it: head flopping on a scrawny neck. The boy opened his eyes and Dicken met the blank gaze and stroked his forehead, then ran his rubber-gloved finger over the boy’s cheek. The skin stayed pale.

      “Capillary damage,” he murmured.

      “The virus is attacking their endothelial tissues,” Kelson said. “They have red lesions between the fingers and toes, some of them vesicular. It’s goddamned tropical in its weirdness.”

      The boy closed his eyes. The girl lifted her head. “I’m not his perf,” she said, her voice like a high sough of wind. “He lost his perf last night. I don’t think he wants to live.”

      DeWitt knelt beside the girl. “You should go back to your cot. You’re sick, too.”

      “I can’t,” the girl said, and again lay down her head.

      Dicken stood and tried desperately to clear his mind.

      The director tsked in pity. “Absolute confusion,” Trask said, voice muffled by the handkerchief. His phone rang in his pocket. He apologized, lowered the cloth, then half turned to answer it. After a few mumbled replies, he closed the phone. “Very good news. I’m expecting a truck filled with supplies from Dayton any minute, and I want to be there. Dr. Kelson, Ms. Middleton—I leave these people with you. Dr. Augustine, do you want to work from my office or would you prefer to stay here? I imagine you have many administrative duties…”

      “I’ll stay here,” Augustine said.

      “Your privilege,” Trask said. With some astonishment, they watched the director toss a nonchalant, almost dismissive wave and make his way around the rows of cots to the door.

      Kelson rolled his milky eyes. “Good fucking riddance,” he murmured.

      “The children are losing all social cohesion,” DeWitt said. “I’ve tried to tell Trask for months that we needed more trained observers, professional anthropologists. Losing bond friends—sometimes they call them perfs—do you realize what that means to them?”

      “Diana’s their angel,” Kelson said. “She knows what they’re thinking. That may be as important as medicine in the next few hours.” He shook his head, jowls jiggling beneath his chin. “They are innocents. They do not deserve this. Nor do we deserve Trask. That state-appointed son of a bitch is in on this, I’m sure of it. He’s squeezing profits somewhere.” Having said his piece, Kelson looked up at the ceiling. “Pardon me. It’s the goddamned truth. I have to get back. The medical center is at your disposal, Dr. Dicken, such as it is.” He turned and walked down a row of cots, through the door on the opposite side of the infirmary.

      “He’s a good man,” Middleton said. She used a key to open the back door to the main compound, opening on to the infirmary loading dock. She lifted an eyebrow at Dicken. “Used to be pretty cushy around here, room and board, easy work, best school in the world, the kids were so easy, we said. Then they up and ran, the bastards.”

      Middleton led them down the loading ramp to a golf cart parked in the receiving area. DeWitt sat beside her. “Get on, gentlemen.”

      “Any guesses?” Augustine asked Dicken in an undertone as they climbed onto the middle bench seat. The Secret Service agent, now almost invisible to Dicken, sat on the rear-facing backseat and murmured into a lapel mike.

      Dicken shrugged. “Something common—coxsackie or enterovirus, some kind of herpes. They’ve had trouble with herpes before, prenatal. I need to see more.”

      “I

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