"This man's still alive," he said. He stared at the body before him. The skin was nearly translucent, a clear gray aspic of tissue and muscle fibers. Beneath the surface, veins and capillaries were clearly visible, pulsing slightly, blue and crimson strands threading along arms, legs, and thickening like rope at the man's neck. "This man's still alive…."
Dr. Bronschweig shrugged. "Technically and biologically. But he'll never recover."
The Cigarette-Smoking Man shook his head. "How can this be?"
"The developing organism is using his life energy, digesting bone and tissue. We've just slowed the process." He reached to grasp the swivel neck of a lamp, redirecting it so that it shone directly on the fireman's torso. Beneath the smooth spongy planes of his chest, some-thing moved.
The Cigarette-Smoking Man grimaced.
On the gurney, the body of the fireman shud-dered. A ripple seemed to race through it, the glistening translucent skin shuddering the way a sea nettle does when it flounders upon a beach. The chest heaved gently, as though something inside had moved and stretched. A closer look revealed a hand attached to what had to be an organism.
Then the darkness blinked. Just once, very slowly; and resolved itself into an eye, almond-shaped, watchful.
The Cigarette-Smoking Man gazed at it, his mind working frantically as he measured all the possibilities of what was before him, all the consequences…
"Do you want us to destroy this one, too?" Dr. Bronschweig was asking. "Before it ges-tates?"
The Cigarette-Smoking Man waited before replying. "No," he said at last. "No… we need to try out the vaccine on it."
"And if it's unsuccessful?"
"Burn it. Like the others."
Dr. Bronschweig frowned. "This man's fam-ily will want to see the body laid to rest."
The Cigarette-Smoking Man made a dis-missive gesture. "Tell them he was trying to save the young boy's life. That he died hero-ically, like the other firemen."
"Of what?"
"They seemed to buy our story about the Hanta virus." The Cigarette-Smoking Man pursed his lips and stared meditatively at the figure before him, as though seeing past it to the man it had once been.
"You'll make sure the families are taken care of financially, along with a sizable donation to the community."
He continued to gaze at the fireman. Finally he said, "Maybe a small roadside memo-rial." Then he turned, and without another word left the chamber.
CHAPTER 6
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Inside Walter Reed it smelled like any other hospital, disinfectant and chemical lemon, alcohol swabs and air-conditioning. But the few people Mulder and Scully passed wore navy uni-forms, not standard-issue scrubs, and the shad-owy figure eating at the end of the hallway was not a nurse but a very young man in uniform, his head bent over the Washington Post. At the sound of their footsteps he looked up, alert as though it were not 3:30 in the morning.
"ID and floor you're visiting?" he said.
They flashed him their FBI IDs. "We're going down to the morgue," Mulder explained.
The guard shook his head. "That area is currently off limits to anyone other than authorized medical perso
Mulder eyed him coldly. "On whose orders?"
"General McAddie's."
Mulder didn't miss a beat. "General Mc-Addie is who requested our coming here. We were awakened at three A.M. and told to get down here immediately."
"I don't know anything about that." The young naval guard frowned, glancing at the clipboard on his desk.
"Well, call General McAddie." Mulder stared impatiently down the corridor.
"I don't have his number."