The Gemini Virus Read Online Free PDF Page A

blood-clouded water was what appeared to be sizable sections of scratched-off (or peeled-off) skin. They drifted with the silent grace of lily pads, which somehow made them all the more grotesque.
    Dugan lingered, and Teague realized it wasn’t because he was in any kind of trance this time—he just didn’t want to go into the last room. The feeling was mutual, quite frankly, but they couldn’t leave until they did. And there was no greater truth in the universe than the fact that Bill Teague wanted to get the hell out of this apartment.
    “One more to go,” Teague said, “and then we’re done.”
    “Yeah,” Dugan replied. “Okay.”
    As they went down the hallway together, side by side like groom and bride, they realized two things. First, the room at the other end was, without a doubt, the primary source of the smell in the apartment. It seemed to be seeping right through the door and growing exponentially. And second, there were machines of some kind running inside—they could hear several different mechanized hums and rhythms, as if Milligan were secretly managing a small production facility.
    They paused when they got there, both wishing they were anywhere else on Earth while their hearts boomed like war drums. Dugan took something from his back pocket—a small, cylindrical container that looked like lip balm. Largely unknown to the general public, it was indispensable to medical examiners worldwide—a quick stroke under each nostril made you all but impervious to the wretched stench of decaying flesh.
    He applied it quickly, then handed it to Teague. “You’ll want this.”
    “Thanks.” Teague’s fingers were shaking. When he was finished, he replaced the cap and handed it back.
    “Good?”
    “I hope so.”
    “Okay.” Dugan licked his lips. “Here goes.”
    He surprised Teague by grabbing the knob and pushing the door back in one quick motion. Teague realized he was working from the Band-Aid theory—yank it off fast and maybe it won’t hurt as much.
    Even in the blackness, they could see her, or at least what was left. She had hanged herself from the ceiling fan while it was running—and, gruesomely, still was. The overworked motor groaned unevenly as the paddles turned at a lazy, diminished speed. The darkness obscured all fine details, but the spare light from the hallway revealed the silhouette of Milligan’s body, clad in a long nightgown, each time it cycled by.
    “Holy hell…,” Dugan said hoarsely.
    “Turn it off,” Teague told him, the slightest touch of hysteria in his voice. “Turn it off!”
    “What?”
    “The fan! Turn off the fan !”
    “Oh…”
    He reached in and felt for the switch. There was a round fader knob just inside the doorway, but he pulled back with a girlish squeal when he realized it was encrusted with some kind of dried substance.
    He swore copiously as he wiped his fingers on his shirt. Then he reached into his front pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. Covering his hand as if preparing to do a magic trick, he tried again.
    He meant only to turn the knob until it clicked and shut the fan off. In his heavily distracted state, however, he inadvertently depressed it, powering the fan’s three-globed lights. Now every detail was in plain view.
    A part of them didn’t want to look—but of course they did. Teague was paralyzed while the circuitry in his brain sparked and sputtered in an attempt to comprehend the sight before him. Dugan’s reaction wasn’t quite so succinct—his face went from the flustered ham-pink to a deathly pale. His eyes widened like those of a surprised child. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but instead he fell to his knees and vomited explosively. He tried to stem the flow with his hand, but the force was such that it merely squirted between his fingers.
    Milligan’s skin—visible only on her face, arms, and the tip of the remaining foot that peeked out below the hemline of her gown—had swollen to such a degree that she