Chapter Six

B RITTANY SENT THE text from the floor, staring up at the ceiling, fervently hoping the sludge wasn't seeping too deep into her clothes.

SITE CLEAR. TEAM THREE DOWN. CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL FOLLOWED, SITE ANALYSIS TO FOLLOW.

She sighed and carefully got up, half sliding across the floor, half walking, until she got back to the door. She opened it wide, and slid a door stop underneath to keep it open.

Bo was still there, leaning against the wall.

"This, uh," Brittany said, looking over her shoulder at the mess behind her, "it doesn't bother you?"

"Bother?" Bo asked sharply. "Yeah, it bothers me. Fuck yeah. At least one dude looks to have died. Probably a lot fucking more than just one dude. And it's me that's got to clean all this gore the fuck up. 'Course it bothers me. What the fuck you think I am?"

"That came out wrong," Britt said. "I really didn't mean it to sound, like, I mean, that you weren't, like moved by the deaths of these people. It's just, uh, Mr. Anderson—"

"Bo. No one uses my last name."

"Noted. It's just that it doesn't bother you on a deeper sort of level? Like, intellectually?"

"What? The death?"

"Not the death, I mean, I understand that. More, the uh, well, other things that seem to have been in the room as well—"

"Like the tentacles and the black alien blood and shit from another world or something?"

"That's kind of what I'm referring to, yes."

"I mean, it's some weird-ass shit, but I'm not, what, intellectually bothered by the presence of weird-ass shit, or whatever. I mean, I'm human. I am sad someone died. Some people died. I'm unhappy someone made a mess here. I'm hungry because I threw up my bagel after I saw this shit. But am I turning into useless turds like the cops and smearing poop across the walls and talking gibberish? No. I got shit to do. Boss'll be in by 11, I gots to have it clean by then or my month is in the shitter. More in the shitter. My month is already in the shitter. I mean, how the fuck am I supposed to get blood off the goddamn ceiling?"

"Let me ask you a question, Mr. Anderson—"

"Bo."

"Sorry. Just a few questions. Do you have any family?"

"Family? Uh, sure."

"What kind?"

"Brothers. Sisters. Fourteen nieces and nephews."

"I think we're going to need you to come with us."

"Are you fucking kidding — I didn't have nothing to do with that shit in there. I just came in this morning, saw the shit in there, and called the cops. I didn't—"

"Easy, Bo, hold on. I'm not, uh, arresting you. I'm, uh, well, you're about to get a job with the government."

"Do I still have to clean that shit up?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Shit."