Leviathan Wakes - James S. A. Corey [124]
“Where the hell did those vomit zombies come from so fast?” he said to Miller’s back.
The detective shrugged with his left hand, his right still clutching his pistol.
“I don’t think enough of that crap came out of Julie to infect the whole station,” he replied without slowing down. “I’m guessing they were the first batch. The ones they incubated to get enough goo to infect the shelters with.”
That made sense. And when the controlled portion of the experiment went to shit, you just turned them loose on the populace. By the time people figured out what was going on, half of them were infected already. Then it was just a matter of time.
They paused briefly at a corridor intersection, watching as the leader of the merc group stopped a hundred meters ahead and talked on his radio for a minute. Holden was gasping and trying to catch his breath when the group started up again, and Miller moved to follow. He reached out and grabbed the detective’s belt and let Miller drag him along. Where did the skinny Belter keep this reserve of energy?
The detective stopped. His expression was blank.
“They’re arguing,” Miller said.
“Huh?”
“The leader of that group and some of the men. Arguing about something,” Miller replied.
“So?” Holden asked, then coughed something wet into his hand. He wiped it off on the back of his pants, not looking to see if it was blood. Please don’t let it be blood.
Miller shrugged with his hand again.
“I don’t think everyone’s on the same team here,” he said.
The merc group turned down another corridor, and Miller followed, yanking Holden along behind him. These were the outer levels, filled with warehouse space and ship repair and resupply depots. They didn’t see a lot of foot traffic at the best of times. Now the corridor echoed like a mausoleum with their footsteps. Up ahead, the merc group turned again, and before Miller and Holden could reach the junction, a lone figure wandered into view.
He didn’t appear to be armed, so Miller moved toward him cautiously, impatiently reaching behind himself and pulling Holden’s hand off his belt. Once he was free, Miller held up his left hand in an unmistakably cop-like gesture.
“This is a dangerous place to be wandering around, sir,” he said.
The man was now less than fifteen meters ahead of them and began moving toward them at a lurch. He was dressed for a party in a cheap tuxedo with a frilly shirt and sparkly red bow tie. He was wearing one shiny black shoe, the other foot covered with only a red sock. Brown vomit trickled from the corners of his mouth and stained the front of his white shirt.
“Shit,” Miller said, and brought up his gun.
Holden grabbed his arm and yanked it back down.
“He’s innocent in this,” Holden said, the sight of the injured and infected man making his eyes burn. “He’s innocent.”
“He’s still coming,” Miller said.
“So walk faster,” Holden said. “And if you shoot anyone else and I haven’t given you permission to, you don’t get a ride on my ship. Got me?”
“Trust me,” Miller said. “Dying is the best thing that could happen to that guy today. You’re not doing him any favors.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” Holden replied, his tone edging into real anger.
Miller started to reply, but Holden held up one hand and cut him off.
“You want on the Roci? I’m the boss, then. No questions, no bullshit.”
Miller’s smirk turned into a smile. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Our mercs are getting ahead of us.” He pointed down the corridor.
Miller nodded and moved off again at his steady, machinelike pace. Holden didn’t turn around, but he could hear the man Miller had almost shot crying