Parasite (Parasitology, #1)(40)

Chave walked through the door about three long strides ahead of me. I kept trying to catch up, and was moving faster than I should have been when she froze midstep only six feet into the room. I nearly collided with her suddenly motionless form. I managed to swerve to the side at the last moment, and stumbled, going down on one knee.

“Chave?” I looked up at her, my new position giving me a perfect view of her face. She was staring slack-jawed at the far wall. There was no animation in her eyes. She could have been one of the dead fish waiting in the kitchen for the frying pan. Her arms had dropped to her sides, dangling limply now that all of her tension was gone. I was dimly aware that my heart was beating too fast, hammering itself against the inside of my rib cage like something trapped. I was trapped. Whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t something I wanted anything to do with.

“Chave?” I repeated. My voice came out small and uncertain as I clambered awkwardly back to my feet. There was an expanding bubble of silence around us, created by the people who were slowly realizing that something was going on. They put down their forks and spoons, stopped drinking from their glasses, and turned in our direction. And Chave didn’t move. I reached for her arm. “Chave, are you okay?”

“Miss Mitchell, please step back.”

The voice came from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. I could feel myself beginning to tremble, despite my best efforts to stop. “It’s okay,” I said, to the brown-uniformed SymboGen security officers who were standing in the open doorway. “I’m with her. She’s my escort. I’m allowed to be here.”

“No one’s questioning that, Miss Mitchell, but you need to move away from Ms. Seaborne now. Please step back.”

“Sally, please.” I turned too fast, almost unbalancing myself again. Dr. Banks was in front of us, his hands held out in front of him in a beseeching gesture, palms turned upward. “Just come here. Come here quickly.”

Chave was still standing there, staring blankly into the distance. Some imp of the perverse made me step closer to her, following an impulse I didn’t understand. “Why?” I demanded. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with her?” I’d seen the sleepwalking sickness before, but I couldn’t find the words to ask the questions I wanted. Why was this happening? Why did it keep happening?

More security was flowing into the room through the main door, circulating with quick efficiency through the maze of tables. The executives were abandoning their seats now, leaving half-eaten meals and half-full glasses of wine behind as they hurried to the exit, or to the far end of the room. They were putting as much distance as they could between Chave and myself, and that didn’t seem like a good sign to me. Neither did the guns that some of the security guards were holding. I didn’t know much about firearms; I tried to tell myself that they were stun guns, and for the most part, I was able to make myself believe it.

“You need to move aside, Miss Mitchell.” The officer who seemed to be in charge of this—whatever it was—looked frustrated, and drew his sidearm, holding it at hip level. “We’ll be happy to explain when the crisis situation has been averted.”

“She was showing no signs on her last blood panel,” said another voice, sounding as much confused as panicked. I turned toward it. A man I recognized from the research floor was pressed into the mass of executives, staring at Chave like she was a problem to be solved. “I don’t understand.”

Neither did I. I started to turn toward Dr. Banks.

Chave was faster.

Her hands caught my throat in midturn, bringing me to an abrupt halt. I froze, staring into her empty eyes. Behind me, men were shouting, and the Head of the Security Department was barking orders. I couldn’t turn to see whether they were being followed. Chave’s grip on my neck was too tight, and it forced me to keep looking at her.

It was like looking at a dead thing. The comparison had occurred to me before, but I hadn’t realized how apt it was. There was no emotion in her eyes, no animation, nothing but the cloudy blankness of a body that had been abandoned. She was moving, her hands were doing their best to strangle the life out of my body, but Chave—the bitchy, efficient, focused woman who had been a fixture of my visits to SymboGen since the beginning—was no longer living there.

I struggled for air, making a small gasping noise. Chave’s hands tightened. Lifting my own hands, I clawed at her fingers, trying to regain my balance enough to let me kick at her. If she was standing, she could be knocked down. Nothing is immovable, and I only needed a moment if I wanted to run. I should have moved when they told me to, I thought deliriously. I think I’m going to die here. I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to die in the SymboGen cafeteria. My parents would never get my body. Dr. Banks would seize it for research purposes, and I had no doubt that the contracts I’d signed gave him the right to do exactly that. Maybe this was his plan all along. Maybe Chave was just carrying out another one of her orders.

No. That wasn’t possible. While I had no trouble believing that Chave would kill me if she was told to, no one could fake the kind of emptiness I saw in her eyes. She wasn’t pretending. I pulled helplessly at her hands, trying to pry them from my throat.

Dark spots were appearing in front of my eyes when someone behind me shouted, “Sal! Relax!” I heard running footsteps moving toward me, and I went limp, the sudden weight of me nearly pulling me out of Chave’s hands. Only nearly, but Sherman did the rest when he collided with her, slamming one shoulder into her midsection in a move that would have done an offensive lineman proud.