“Where are we?” Sam sat up, got his bearings. “Tell you what. Let’s hit that bar where all the Streets and Sans boys hang out, see if we can’t find anybody who works with ’em. Maybe they can give us something.”

Ed nodded his head. “Okay. But it ain’t gonna work.” Despite having essentially the same employer, the City of Chicago, the public workers, the rat catchers, the electricians, the IDOT men, the garbage collectors, all of them didn’t mix much with the first responders, the cops, the firemen, the paramedics. The pay scales weren’t much different, but folks at the bar looked at it as a kind of class issue, and they were proud to consider themselves blue collar. Cops also saw themselves as being blue collar, but for whatever reason, the division remained.

“Maybe so.” Sam shrugged. “Try and convince ’em that all we’re doing is trying to find out what the hell happened to their buddies.”

Ed gave a tired smile. “Sure. Easiest thing in the world, trying to convince a city worker in this town to trust a damn cop.”

“Beats the alternative.”

“And what’s the alternative?”

“Shooting all the assholes in that hospital and making ’em tell us what the fuck is going on.”

Tommy blinked his way out of a dreamless sleep to find Dr. Reischtal sitting in the folding chair next to the door, quietly watching him. Tommy let his bandaged head fall back against the thin mattress. He wanted to let himself cry. He’d been hoping for a dream of his daughter, just so he could see her face when he slept, but sleep had been thin and elusive.

“I trust you slept well,” Dr. Reischtal said.

Tommy wondered if Dr. Reischtal was making a joke. Probably not. The man gave off the peculiar impression that he had somehow been born without a sense of humor.

Tommy didn’t bother to answer. He didn’t say much these days.

He sure as hell didn’t sleep well. In fact, he wasn’t sure if it could even be classified as sleep, if that’s what you would call passing out from exhaustion for a few minutes at a time, on and off throughout the day. He was still strapped to the bed, for one thing. He had some kind of tube up his ass and a goddamn needle up his dick. The pain in his skull was constant, and with no medication, the dull ache clung to him like a stubborn shadow.

The hospital had been growing louder as well.

Especially at night. Tommy would lie in his bed, listening whether he wanted to or not, as more and more patients were brought to his floor. There was no shortage of screaming, as if demons chewed on their brains. And sometimes, when the doctors finished, giving up in disgust, the undisturbed silence was somehow worse.

Dr. Reischtal rose to his feet, crossed the small hospital room, and loomed over him. He now wore some kind of biohazard suit.

Dr. Reischtal’s cold, clinical eyes studied Tommy. “I still believe you know something. Something that you aren’t telling me.”

Tommy didn’t bother to answer. He watched the almost imperceptible flickering of the fluorescent lights.

“There must be a reason.” Dr. Reischtal continued, as if Tommy was some kind of exotic plant, incapable of communication. “Some reason why you haven’t contracted the virus.”

Tommy’s head hurt. He said, “Must be God’s will.”

Dr. Reischtal drew back as if the virus itself had attacked his faceplate. “Do. Not. Mock. Me.” He placed one gloved finger on Tommy’s right temple, pushing against the bandage where he had drilled into the skull. The pressure increased.

Brilliant red and violet clouds unfurled in Tommy’s vision. The pain made his toes curl, his fingernails dig into his palms.

“I will fill you full of drugs that will render you incapable of movement. Of speech.” Dr. Reischtal did not pull his finger away. “I will paralyze you. I will rob you of everything except the ability to feel pain and leave you helpless on Lower Wacker for the rats to chew on at their convenience.”

Someone knocked at the door. One of the techs stuck his head inside. “The connections have been tested and we are online, doctor.”

Dr. Reischtal withdrew his finger.

Tommy tried not to gasp, and swallowed hard instead.

Dr. Reischtal nodded. “Very well. Notify Sergeant Reaves,” he told the tech. “Mr. Krazinsky is awake.”

The tech said, “Yes, doctor,” and left.

Dr. Reischtal looked back down at Tommy. “While I still believe that you are hiding something, others are convinced that you may be of some assistance in our war. Therefore, if you cooperate, I am willing to grant you limited freedom. We will remove your restraints, for one thing. Perhaps even a telephone call to your daughter.”

Dr. Reischtal saw the look in Tommy’s eyes that Tommy couldn’t hide and gave a thin, emotionless smile. “I will expect your full cooperation, yes?”

Despite himself, Tommy nodded.

They lifted Tommy off the bed and settled him into a sturdy wheelchair. Tommy was hoping they would remove the damn catheters, but no luck. They used the leather straps on the wheelchair to bind his hands and feet and hung his bags from the IV stand connected to the chair.

All in all, it was a nice change of pace from the bed.

Two techs, both wearing full biohazard suits, performed the task. Sergeant Reaves supervised. He wore a bulletproof vest, a blue surgical mask, and a holster on his hip, but never took the handgun out. Instead, he hung back, said nothing, and kept his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

They wheeled him out, and Tommy was shocked at the amount of movement in the hospital. He’d been listening to the increased activity from his room, but it was quite a different feeling to actually see the change. Plastic still lined the walls, floor, and ceiling. Biohazard suits rushed around, carrying equipment or laptops, or pushing gurneys. Most of the rooms appeared to be occupied.

They pushed him into the elevator and hit the button for the second floor. Tommy shifted in the wheelchair, trying to get more comfortable, and felt Sergeant Reaves stiffen beside him. One hand went to the holster. Tommy tried not to smile. It felt good to make the pricks nervous. He wondered if he might be able to use this to his advantage. The techs affixed a surgical mask over his nose and mouth.

The doors to the second floor opened, and he was pushed out into much brighter light. No more rooms for patients—this was the lab floor. Tommy could only guess at what all the shit was used for. Only a few of the hospital personnel on this floor wore complete biohazard suits. Most only wore scrubs, rubber gloves, and surgical masks.

They wheeled him down the wide hallway. The rooms were mostly open on either side, filled with a dizzying array of medical equipment. They passed a table piled high with what looked like clear garbage bags. As he rolled past, Tommy realized that the bags each contained a dead dog. At the far end, he thought he recognized one, and he said, “Wait, stop!”

The tech, startled by the first words he had heard Tommy say all day, actually stopped.

Tommy stared through thick plastic at Don’s dog, Rambo. It looked like Rambo’s throat had been cut. The top of its skull had been removed, and most of his brain was missing.

Sergeant Reaves gave the tech a hard stare and they were off and rolling again, moving faster this time. They pushed Tommy into a conference room at the end of the hall. The room was empty, save for a large square table and a row of televisions, each tuned to a blue screen. A small video camera on a tripod had been set up in front of the TV. Cables snaked away to a computer in the corner. They left Tommy in front of the camera. Tommy heard the techs leave the room.

Sergeant Reaves, standing as always right behind the wheelchair, said, “Mr. Krazinsky is ready.”