Muerte Roja

by Queen of the Red Skittle

AU. Thrax wins. Frank dies. When Jones looks for revenge in the wrong place, he must correct the mistake before it's too late.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for my OCs.

A.N: ClearlyI'm seventeen years late to this fandom, but the moment I stumbled on this movie I knew I had to write this. Though I tried keeping the characters true to themselves, I'll happily accept any critique you might have on their portrayals.

A.N#2: Written to Blade Runner 2049 by Hans Zimmer and Benjamin Wallfisch, "The Mark - Interlude" by Moderat, and "A Three-Legged Workhorse" by This Will Destroy You.

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"My mother boils seawater. It tastes like salt but like something else, too—wide, and dark. It tastes like drowning, or like falling asleep on the shore and only waking up when the tide has come up to your feet and you wonder if you'd gone on sleeping, would you have sunk?"
—Carri Thurman, excerpt from "The Alchemy: Salt from Water"

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Muerte Roja

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Osmosis Jones absentmindedly turned the doll over in his hand. It had come from a consignment store, loved once. He still didn't know where he'd gotten the urge to buy it. He'd paused by the storefront, his mind in a fog, hands in pockets. Now the doll appeared diseased in the sickly red light of the club. Red, like the colour of his obsession. Red, like a certain virus.

Jones clenched a fist.

Thrax.

Several patrons glanced his way before moving to other tables. Blinking, Jones looked down and noticed the doll bulging in his straining hand. He stuffed it in his coat pocket and sighed. Keep it together, fool, he thought, closing his eyes. Now ain't the time to crack.

Not now, not after how long it took him to find this virus. Not after all the body hopping, all the sleepless nights, all the one-step-too-late failures. Not after watching Thrax kill again and again.

Jones didn't wait much longer. More patrons moved off as a big, hulking germ approached his table. His three yellow eyes dragged over Jones with the distaste. The ex-cop allowed the visual pat-down with a cool one of his own.

"They'll see you now," the germ finally said.

Show time. Jones took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and got up. He left his untouched drink as he trailed the big fellow, his fingers twitching for the gun he no longer had. There'd been a time when he'd ice such guys: now he followed them into dark hallways.

They left the roar of the club and passed through a series of dim corridors. The air smelled smoky, metallic, as if something had burned long ago and no one had bothered to clear it. The smell reminded Jones of Thrax. It was all he could do not to shudder.

The germ led Jones into a back room. It was so still and quiet the busyness of the club felt like a lifetime ago, as if he'd traveled into the past rather than a few steps. It wasn't until the door clicked shut behind him did Jones realize his escort was gone. He was alone.

No, not alone.

"I heard you've been looking for me," a voice said from a corner table. It was neither masculine nor feminine, faintly accented. "Osmosis Jones."

"That's right," Jones said, hiding his surprise with a levity he didn't feel. He kept his chin high as he moved toward the only other figure in the room, making a quick inventory of the exits if things went pear-shaped. A single chair waited for him. Jones sat down at the table and his first skyrocketing thought was: You serious? After all the hype? Thrax could tear this guy in two.

The virus had a long body and slender, serpentine features, yet Jones couldn't tell if they were male or female. In the thick purple light it was also difficult to tell what colour they were, but Jones released a pent-up breath anyway. At least the virus wasn't red. Eyes like poached eggs shifted in their sockets, pupiless and gleaming. It took the ex-cop a moment to realize the thing had a tail peeking from under their coat, the end tied in a weird knot. Before Jones could wonder if it was self-inflicted or a normal trait, the virus said,

"What do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Jones?"

Jones felt his lips pull from his teeth. "Ever heard of a virus named Thrax? Big red guy? Kills people in forty-eight hours?" Or less, Jones didn't add. One victim was a thirty-six hour kill.

"Thrax." The virus' noseless snout wrinkled as if noticing an unpleasant scent, giving Jones a glimpse of needled teeth and deep, purple gums. They leaned back. "The odd virus who works alone. Seems all I hear of these days."

Jones wanted to say, No, not alone. He recruits local gangs and when he's done with them he kills them, or takes hostages and kills them too, but then remembered he was talking to the infamous Ebola virus themselves. Maybe they did the same thing. Who knew. Maybe he'd be killed after this little chat.

"Well, I thought you should know he's been talking smack about you. That you're nothing but a case of dandruff compared to him."

The Ebola virus paused, scratching their cheek with a long finger. After a moment they said, "I assume you heard him say that in person?"

Jones hesitated a second too long. The answer was no: it'd been by pure accident Jones found one of Thrax's old associates drinking at some dive bar. It'd been in Shane's body then, the grief still too large and new to process. Jones had stumbled in to get blasted and overheard the sweat germ talking about Thrax in slurred tones, recounting how the virus killed his old boss Scabies. All crazy-like, he'd said, hiccuping into his drink. You shoulda seen him move.

Jones tracked the germ down afterwards to get a more refined story, possibly even Thrax's whereabouts. After a little painful persuasion, the other spilled everything.

"He killed Bruiser and I thought he was gonna kill me!" the germ had said. "C'mon, I just want to move on!"

Killing the germ wouldn't bring Leah back, or Drix, or Frank. But it sure felt good to shove him in a blocked pore and leave him there. Move on? Jones had thought, scrubbing a hand over his face as he walked away. Was that even possible?

During the first few bodies of chasing Thrax, Jones had gone directly to the head of the city's PD to warn the bigwigs in charge. He'd tried posing as a Foreign Agent, but without his old badge or gun he was either laughed outright or told to get lost. A one-man virus that killed in forty-eight hours? Get real, pal. In one body Jones was nearly flushed out the bladder before he wiggled free.

After that he stopped trying to recruit help and tried stopping Thrax on his own. He knew how the big guy operated, knew his formula. At least, that's what Jones had thought. Despite his lone-wolf virus routine Thrax hired thugs, sometime lots of them. By the time Jones managed to slip by all the recruited germ security and Immunity, the DNA bead would be already stolen.

The taste of failure became familiar.

Jones forced himself not to lean back as the Ebola virus brought their serpentine head closer to his. It was then Jones realized the virus carried a bland, yellow smell. It was a pus-smell, the smell of infection. It banished the smokiness of the room.

"Regardless if your story is true, why should I care?"

"He insulted you, man!" Jones said. Oh, hell, is this even a guy? "Are you gonna let him disrespect you like that?"

When the virus went quiet and continued to stare at him, Jones couldn't tell if the other was irritated, amused, or just thoughtful. There was nothing to read. Yet Jones could feel something, like a coolness on his cheek.

"What's your game?" Ebola said.

"What?"

"I allowed this little tête-à-tête because you interested me. An Immunity officer, but not of this city, coming all this way to find me? And now that you're here, you tell me this? You seem to forget, I have all the infamy I need. I can kill whenever I want. What do I care about some random virus, this Thrax?"

Grasping, Jones blurted, "I also heard him called Red Death."

Everyone knew Red Death was one of Ebola's nicknames. Everyone knew. Granted, Jones had heard La Muerte Roja! He's coming, man from one little germ, but this Ebola virus didn't know that. The other went still. Bingo, Jones thought. He kept his features schooled, but inside he was leaping.

That was until the Ebola virus smiled. It was a languid thing. "You may show yourself out, Mr. Jones."

Jones tried not to visibly wilt. "Uh—"

Something about the other's manner bade Jones to leave, and leave quickly.

When the ex-cop stepped out of the club he took a deep breath and sighed, warring between What were you thinking? and Damn, I thought it'd work! He closed his eyes as a passing breeze brought the stink of the nearby factories. Jones half-smiled. He remembered how Frank's own filtering stations in Livertown had oscillated between over-working and breaking down. It was always something with that guy, he thought, mouth pulling at the corners. The memory tasted bittersweet.

Jones pulled the doll out of his pocket and chucked it in the first trash bin he saw.

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Jones sprang upright, shout of No! dying in his mouth.

Within seconds a scrawl of thoughts flashed behind his eyes like a newsfeed: You're in Heidi City, you're in a motel in Rib Row, you're alone, Leah's dead, Frank's dead, Drix's dead, and Thrax is still alive.

Jones flopped back on the thin mattress and stared at the peeling ceiling, his membrane sweating bullets. No use sleeping now. To distract himself from the fading nightmare he touched fingers to his lips, trying to remember Leah's taste during their first and only kiss. Over the weeks months? he'd replayed the memory so often it'd become muddled, confused. Had she smelled like spices, or floral sweetness? Had her lips been firm or soft?

Leah girl, he thought. Grief pressed behind his eyes.

After awhile he peeled himself off the bed andwent to the bathroom sink. The cracked mirror peered back at him. You don't look so good, buddy, he thought to his reflection. Gray bags clung to his eyes. His membrane appeared washed out in the flickering bathroom light. Not so good at all.

Jones scrubbed his face clean, rinsed his mouth, and went back to the main room. How many days had it been since he left the Ebola virus? Four? A week? He'd hopped at least two bodies, following a lead Thrax was somewhere in Heidi City.

If he was up, might as well start the day. Was Thrax still in his recruiting phase? Or had he already planned his move for the hypothalamus? The bed creaked as Jones sat on its edge. Maybe he'd been playing it too safe, waiting for the perfect moment that would never come. He still had a slim advantage: there was a good chance Thrax thought he was dead. And in all the chasing, in all the bodies, Jones hadn't confronted the virus yet. His guard would be down.

Jones considered posing as one of Thrax's henchmen, but he'd need a different disguise. Or maybe, a breathless little voice said, or maybe you just need to get close enough for a shot.

The voice of his old boss rang out: "78 trillion cells working together and you're the only one who thinks he can do it alone. Don't you think that might be your problem, Jones?"

"Maybe it is, Chief," Jones said. He stared at nothing as the idea took shape. Something inside him trilled. This was it. If he screwed up again, there'd be no Drix to save his butt.

Jones tried imagining what the cold pill would say if he were here.

"You're being a bad cop again,"a phantom Drix said.

Jones smiled too many teeth. "Yeah, I know. But I gotta do this."

The room remained silent. Jones scrubbed his face again. I'm gonna need a gun.

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Jones winced as he shoved the two HPD Immunity officers behind a collagen wall. The younger one groaned, a bruise already forming on his jaw. Jones tried not to notice.

"Sorry, boys," he said, "but I'm gonna need your firepower for this."

A siren's warble had him ducking down. Jones peeked around the corner and saw a second PD patrol car drive by, the white blood cells inside eying the pedestrians crossing the streets. It don't matter, the little voice said. Don't matter how vigilant a city's PD is. Thrax always manages to get the drop on them. When the prowler disappeared around a bend Jones finished taking the shoulder and leg holsters. Putting them on was like putting on the past. He stood still for a moment, eyes squeezed shut at the sudden rush of emotion.

A louder groan from the older cop shook Jones from his thoughts. As he left he snatched one of their radios. Just in case.

He was halfway to the throat in the beat up car he'd hot-wired when his hip hissed static: "BOLO for an unknown assailant in Napeville Heights, possibly armed and dangerous. Two officers down. Repeat, two officers down."

Damn, that sure didn't take long, Jones thought. He quickly checked both guns for trackers. They were clean.

A part of him pulled short. Heidi's Immunity was shaping up to be the most alert force he'd seen in all the bodies he'd hopped. Maybe they were the answer?

Even before Jones finished the thought he shook his head. He'd been down that road before. The clamoring thoughts went quiet as he reached for a gun and wrapped a finger around its trigger. He imagined how Thrax's insides would look.

For Leah. For all the others.

Jones ditched the radio somewhere on the aorta overpass and was halfway up the oropharynx before noticing the red, inflamed membrane. He soon passed pain relief crews battling the flare, some shouting over the spraying wasn't surprised to see an officer directing cars away from the nasopharynx. The ol' one-two, Jones thought. First the throat, then the nose.

When he hit traffic he rolled down his window and peered out. A breeze brought the stink of cooking membrane. The warmth of it fanned Jones' face even from where he sat in the car. There was something beautiful about the way the landscape seemed to burn, the heat waves making everything feel hazy and indistinct. Terrible, but mesmerizing. Someone could get lost in it.

A car meep-meep'd behind him.

"Sorry, sorry," Jones muttered, starting his car to pull up to the officer.

"You're going to have to turn around, sir," the cell said. He was sweating in his fireman's jacket. "The whole upper respiratory is closed for repairs."

Jones plastered his most disarming smile and after several Yes sirs, thank you sirs, he turned his little dinger around. The smiled disappeared the moment he pulled away.

Alright, so Thrax's already busted two of his targets. That means he'll be in his waiting phase before moving onto the brain, Jones thought. Poor Immunity. They'd be so busy focusing on the cold symptoms they'd be literally on fire before realizing they were doomed. It wasn't until he heard the creaking of the steering wheel did Jones notice his white-knuckled grip.

It was a toss-up where Thrax would go next. In the various bodies he either hid deep or stayed in plain sight. Despite Heidi City's robust Immunity, Jones took a gamble and went for the trendier spots that allowed plenty of germ access. The large intestines were a good bet. Anyone could blend in there without hassle, even a tall red virus.

Jones drove the rest of the way in silence, not even bothering putting on the radio. Soon the gigantic tunnel of the large intestine came into view, the walls so huge they faded into organic darkness. When he reached a strip mall he parked his car in a back alley. He didn't bother locking it. If his plan went sideways, he'd doubt he'd live long enough to worry about tickets. He press checked each gun one last time, making sure the chambers were loaded, then holstered them.

Now for the disguise.

"Pliable cellular dynamics!" Drix had said, eyes wide. The amazement had been almost childlike.

Jones had no audience now. After configuring his body into something no longer himself, he began his search. No one glanced his way twice as he entered the first club, which suited him fine. He had to shout over the din to order a drink and scoured the seething landscape for the red virus. The air smelled ripe with the packed bodies. Pungent. Too pungent.

Once it became too loud to think Jones went to another club. The Crypt glowed in bright neon letters above the entrance, colouring the germs waiting in line purple. At first it proved to be more promising, as the music was tasteful and not too loud, but as the ex-cop searched the patronage for his target, it became clear Thrax wasn't among them either.

Jones moved away from the flashier, nosier clubs and headed further south, towards several large goblet cells. Three more establishments turned up nothing. At a certain point Jones began stretching his back and picking at his membrane. He'd been wearing the new cellular configuration for hours and his organelles were starting to ache.

Just as Jones wondered if he should go back to his motel, he noticed a club tucked away. Colourful insults were graffitied across the walls. The sign Sequence buzzed overhead, the q flickering as if caught in an epileptic seizure. There was no line to get in. Jones slipped inside the blue dimness and a chill went down his neck. It smelled the way the first sip of adrenaline tasted going down, dense and caustic. A smattering of patrons mingled among the high-top and corner tables, the buzz of conversation low in the heavy atmosphere. Most were germs with a low-level virus or two slinking about. One cell was giving a lap dance to an enterobacter, her eyes hooded and distant.

Jones watched her for awhile, more caught on the sway of her movements than for cheap arousal. Then his eyes flicked to a table almost in the shadows. His whole body froze.

Thrax.

The red virus lounged at a corner table, sleek and menacing in his black coat, both arms spread over the cushioned seats. A tall drink bubbled in front of him. A girl germ sat pressed to his left side, sipping her own drink. She giggled from time to time, cheeks flushed and gaze unfocused. Thrax didn't look at her, one finger drawing abstract forms against her arm as his other hand played with the beaded chain. Jones clenched, hating. The chain was so long now it wrapped around Thrax's wrist nearly to the forearm. The looped end dangled between the long red fingers, the DNA beads glistening whenever they caught the murky light. One of them is Frank's, Jones thought. Something in his vision beat red.

Jones forced himself to go to the bar. He heard himself order a drink and soon a cold glass was pressed into his hand. It foamed and fizzled and reeked something sour.

His head felt light as he downed the drink. He ignored the Hey man, you're not supposed to shoot those from the patron next to him, wiped his mouth, paid the tab, and began walking towards his obsession. He stopped when he was close enough to hear the chain's liquid clinking. The she-germ looked up from her drink.

"Table's occupied, yo," Thrax said after a moment, still looking at the chain.

"Hiya, Thrax," Jones said, a smile slashed across his face. He raised the gun.

The yellow eyes widened.

Thrax threw the drink in Jones' face just as the trigger pulled. There was a sizzle and a shout as Jones fell backwards, sputtering and blinded. The table was kicked over with a crash. Somewhere a girl was screaming. Others were beginning to shout but Jones blocked them out. Where are you? Despite his momentary blindness Jones rolled to fire a shot and was rewarded with a roar. It sounded like Thrax. Jones smiled as he detected a rancid, cooked-protein smell.

The ex-cop popped to his feet and took a moment to wipe the sticky liquid from his eyes. He barely opened them when something heavy tackled him to the ground, the air leaving his body in a pained oof! It felt like Drix trying to crush him into a pancake. Jones managed to point the gun into something hard and fired. A howl tore through the air. The weight lifted. Jones blinked away the rest of the gunk from his eyes to see he'd shot a germ clean through the shoulder. The germ was still howling as he rolled away, green cytoplasm bleeding everywhere.

A sharp clatter of falling wood had Jones turning to see Thrax emerge from the table's smoldering remains, tall and furious. The initial plasma bullet had burned a smoking line along Thrax's right cheek ridge. Two more micrometers and the eye would've been destroyed. There was also a scorch mark along Thrax's flank from Jones' lucky shot. It'd burned a hole through the coat and turtleneck, revealing a red mess beneath.

Thrax touched the wound on his cheek and pulled away, hissing. "Wanna play, huh? Fine by—" he stopped, mouth going slack. Then his face grew thunderous, eyes glowing like acid as they seared into the ex-cop. "Jones."

Jones saw he was himself again, the disguise lost during the fight. He flashed his biggest shit-eating grin. "In the cytoplasm."

"Don't know when to stay dead, do you," Thrax said.

"Guess not," Jones said. He didn't dare take his eyes off the virus to double-check, but the gun in his hand felt light. Too light. All juiced out, a small voice said. Useless. He let it drop to the ground.

"Came to finish the job then, eh Jones?" Thrax gestured to the scorch mark his cheek. "Too bad you can't shoot for shit."

"Well, you know what they say about trying and trying again," Jones said. The ex-cop realized they'd begun to circle each other, the plasma-riddled table between them. You took my home away from me, you bastard, he wanted to shout, but instead said through gritted teeth, "I'd rather commit apoptosis than see you walk free."

Thrax hummed, smiling as he straightened and smoothed back his dreadlocks. "That can be arranged." In a louder voice he said, "Y'all back off. This one's mine."

It was only then Jones noticed a rough half-circle of burly germs had formed around them. His nucleus flip-flopped. Was everyone here part of Thrax's gang?

You knew this was a one-way trip, something inside him said. For some reason it sounded like Leah. It's okay. Thrax doesn't know about the other gun on your leg. Let him get close and then ice him once and for all. Everything after doesn't matter.

"You still wanting this chain, then?" Thrax asked, waggling it.

Despite himself Jones retreated a step, the memory of strangulation hot around his neck. Thrax gained the step, leaning. The burn on his face made him seem off-balanced, monstrous. He unwrapped the chain and wound it around both hands, as if it were a garrote. Or a noose.

"Don't tell me you're shy now. Might as well try it—on!"

At the last word Thrax leapt at him, claws outstretched. Jones was already dodging but the red virus was fast, faster than the ex-cop remembered. The virus shifted tactics at the last second and lashed out a roundhouse kick, catching Jones in the chest. Jones tried to absorb the blow and spun with the fall, almost skidding into an onlooker as he tried to find his footing. It'd been months since their fight on Shane's eye, but Jones felt they were back there all over again. Just him and Thrax, fighting as the world went to hell.

Jones ducked a handful of sweeping claws and punched as hard as he could at Thrax's injured side. The virus fell away with a whoof!, hunching over. Jones went in to press the attack but Thrax slashed at him, fingers curled. Jones' membrane elongated as he avoided the blows, squashing and stretching like the gum Frank used to chew.

Suddenly Jones' head snapped back, cheek stinging. Something whistled in the air and Jones' other cheek bloomed with pain. As he staggered back he saw Thrax returning the chain to his wrist. Jones rushed in with a high kick but quickly had to curl in defense. If he hadn't prepared for Thrax's punch he would've lost a lot more wind than he did, but it still felt like getting rammed with a bowling ball.

Out of nowhere Thrax's right hand wrapped around his throat and Jones found himself slammed to the ground and pinned.

"Tough cell to crack, huh Jones?" Thrax hissed above him, dreadlocks in disarray. He bore down his considerable weight on the ex-cop's neck. Jones gurgled, hands scrabbling at the vice-like hold.

It's okay, Leah's voice said. You have him right where you want him. Use the gun.

Thrax's hand was like a warm iron pressed against him. Jones tried grabbing the gun holstered on his leg and struggled not to panic as he realized Thrax's knee was pressed too tight to allow access. Thrax scowled for a moment before his face lit up, gracing Jones with a truly awful smile. He reached behind and Jones felt fingers push up his pants and grope at his ankle. Jones tried to kick out. It was no use. The gun's weight disappeared from the holster.

"Lookiiiiiing for this, Jonesy?" Thrax half-sang, long index claw threaded through the gun's trigger guard. He kept it high out of reach before tossing it away. "Hmmmn. Seems like you're out of options, now don't it."

A sudden familiar bitterness flooded Jones' mouth. He'd tasted the same anguish when Shane saw her father die. Everyone he'd ever friended or loved was dead. Now he was too.

I'm sorry, Jones thought, vision tunneling. He couldn't breathe.

The ex-cop thought he was hallucinating when he heard someone say, "Uh, boss? Boss?"

Thrax bared uneven teeth and growled.

"Boss?"

Thrax's head snapped up. "What?"

There was a shuffle of rearranging bodies, then footsteps of someone approaching and stopping. "You seem to be in quite the bind, Mr. Jones," a new voice said. The tone was pleasant, smooth, androgynous.

"You a friend of this loser?" Thrax said with unspoken What now?

"No, nothing like that. You must be Mr. Thrax . . . Red Death?"

"Get lost, yo. I've business to finish."

There was a sharp tkk of a tongue against teeth. "I'm afraid your business is with me now. This case of dandruff wants to set the record straight, see. A little something between us viruses."

The hand at Jones' throat spasmed. The ex-cop found he could breathe and it took all his willpower not to break into a gasping cough. He tilted his head and recognized the Ebola virus he'd spoken to days ago.

He wheezed laughter. "You in trouble now," he croaked.

Thrax's fingers dug into Jones' neck for a heartbeat before lifting away. Jones tried not to gasp in relief as the virus climbed off.

"Bring it on, baby," Thrax said, killing claw going hot. He took a second to glare at Jones. "Don't crawl too far, now. When I'm done I'm coming back and melting your eyes first."

The ring of germs retreated as the two viruses sized each other. Despite Thrax's singed appearance he was taller and broader, his long black coat making the other one appear slight and shabby in comparison. That was until Ebola smiled, lips peeling back to show row after row of needle-thin teeth. The smile grew until it threatened to split their own head, impossibly wide. The white, pupiless eyes seemed to look at nothing and everything at once.

Then Ebola leapt.

Jones dragged himself to the wall and half-collapsed against it, too exhausted to even consider standing. His throat felt as if it'd gone ten rounds with a hot poker and lost. Coughing hurt. Thinking hurt. Jones glanced for the gun Thrax threw but found nothing. Someone from the crowd must've gotten it, he thought.

There was a musical crash of falling glasses and Jones looked in time to see the bar get destroyed. That was his cue to escape. To regroup, to plan his next step. He hadn't meant to watch the fight, but he was soon transfixed at the brutal, no-holds-barred clash between the two viruses. Like the burning membrane in the throat, he thought for no reason. Jones was reminded of the martial arts movies Frank used to love so much: the sequences were more dance than brawl, the blows nearly too fast to follow. He couldn't look away.

It didn't take long before the Ebola virus concentrated their attacks on Thrax's wounded side. Thrax blocked every kick and punch with an assault of his own, superheated claw leaving glow-trails as it whistled through the air. Despite the danger the Ebola virus kept the fight close, pressing at their target like a dog worrying a bone, keeping Thrax on the back foot.

Then the Ebola virus had a misstep, a wobble. It was the first break in the fight, the first noticeable shift. Thrax moved in with a kick that, if it had connected, would've shattered something.

It never did.

Thrax recognized the feint too late. He was still trying to recorrect when he collided with the knotted end of Ebola's tail. The impact slammed the red virus into a nearby collagen pillar. Cracks spidered under the impact as Thrax slid to a crumpled heap, both hands covering the bullet wound.

Jones forgot about escaping. He stood to get a better view.

"You're a one-trick virus, aren't you, Mr. Thrax?" the Ebola virus said as they walked over. Their tone was breathless, cheerful. They sounded how Jones felt. "I don't think you'll be needing this anymore."

Before anyone could react they took Thrax's left wrist and bent it at an impossible angle. Jones heard the crunch before he saw the golden claw go dark. Thrax snatched his wrist free and curled in on himself, grunting agonized hnnnnnnns.

A powerful thrill rushed through Jones as he saw the broken wrist give a loose, gristly flop. He wanted to stomp on it. Break it again. This must be what winning feels like, Jones thought. It was better than kissing Leah. Better than dividing. It was as if he'd eaten a whole carton of hot sauce, the roiling in his cytoplasm leaving him unsure whether he was nauseous or exhilarated.

He didn't notice he had moved closer. He could hear Thrax hissing in pain. It was a beautiful sound.

Jones was so focused on enjoying the moment he didn't realize the Ebola virus was speaking.

". . . am Yambuku of the Zaire Ebolavirus, member of the Filoviridae family. You? You're just some new thug still looking to cut his teeth. You are nothing. And when I kill this body, they'll forget all about you."

Jones froze. Wait, what?

"I think I'll take this."

There was a strangled No! After a brief struggle the Ebola virus stepped back, Thrax's hypothalamus bead chain in hand. Yambuku stared at it with the contemplative air of someone deciding which shirt to wear. Then they laughed. "Before this body dies, I think I'll make you eat this."

Thrax snarled.

There was a shout. "Immunity!"

Jones turned and saw HPD in full S.P.I.T gear entering the club. Oh thank Frank, he thought. Stop this before this gets outta hand. Germs scattered but were thrown to the ground and cuffed. Yambuku watched the descending chaos with a faint smile.

Three white blood cells approached. The lead cell bristled beneath his mustache as he said, "Ma'am? You're under—"

Yambuku interrupted him. "I believe this virus has been ruining the peace, Officer," they said, pointing to Thrax.

A curious blank expression fell over the cells' faces. When the lead spoke again, he sounded as if waking from a dream. "Oh . . . oh, I see. Yes. Ahem, yes ma'am."

"Though it should be out of commission now, watch his left claw. It'd be a shame if it activated and nicked you."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Jones' mouth dropped. What the Frank?

The cells surrounded Thrax as he lurched to his feet. He lashed out with his right hand but the cells had taser-like batons ready. They struck his neck, side, and leg with bursts of sizzling electricity. Thrax went down with a snarl and didn't move again. It took four cells to half-drag, half-carry him out, the broken wrist swinging.

Jones couldn't believe it. He tapped a passing cop by the shoulder pad. "Yo! Aren'tcha forgetting the other virus?"

"What other virus?" she said. "We got them all."

Jones could only stare as the cop went away.

"They can't see me, Mr. Jones," Yambuku said as last of the cops and germs left. Their voice was calm despite Jones having tried to rat them out.

Jones' nucleus dropped to his shoes. "But you're right here," he said.

"They think I'm one of you," they replied. "Ebola trick. How do you think we infect the body so well? After all, you haven't noticed me following you throughout the various cities."

Jones chose to freak out about that last sentence later and said, "Then how come I can see you?" How come I'm the only one who can? he didn't add.

Jones could see his warped reflection in Yambuku's eyes as they gave him a long, bland stare. Instead of answering, they said, "As thanks to you leading me to our mutual friend, I'm allowing you to leave. Run. Go to another body and live out your days, Mr. Jones. Because if you try to interfere—" they stepped close, the pus-smell making Jones gag, "—you can die here, too."

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Jones didn't remember the drive back to his motel in Rib Row. Now he sat on the curb, motel key in his hand. During his years as a cop he'd be overly cautious, trusting his gut despite the cost to his his reputation. He'd seen through Thrax's game before anyone else, yet now he felt like the stupidest idiot.

Ebola hides from Immunity? Jones wanted to shoot himself. He should've known that from Virology 101 in the Police Academy. Should've known that from somewhere, anywhere. Drix would've. He would've told Jones and stopped him in the first place.

He'd made a mistake. The granddaddy of all mistakes.

Jones groaned into his cupped hands.

"You lookin for a good time?"

A scanty-dressed she-cell of indeterminate nature leaned against the wall of his motel, faintly beautiful in the porch light. A red glucose pop gleamed in her hand.

Her eyes widened as Jones looked up. "Oooh, looks like you could use sleep more than a good divide. I'll give you a discount if you only want a cell to cuddle with."

"Tempting offer, but I think I'll pass," Jones said with a smile he didn't feel.

The she-cell shrugged in a Suit yourself and turned to go.

Jones perked. "Hey, d'you know if Heidi is gonna take any cold medicine? I heard her nose and throat were getting pretty bad up there."

The cell snorted. "Medicine? Our Heidi? You must be new here or too young to remember the Great Head Cold of '15. We didn't go to the doctor's once. If anything, she'll down a bag of cough drops. If we're lucky."

Any hope of getting another partner like Drix withered and died. Jones tried not to let his face fall.

The she-cell laughed. "I wouldn't worry about it."

Jones stared at nothing for a beat. "And what if I told you Heidi is infected with an Ebola virus?"

She choked on her glucose pop, sputtering. "Ebola? Here, in Seattle, Washington? You crazy." Her eyes grew sympathetic. "You sure you don't want that cuddle? Just a cuddle, I promise."

Her colour was all wrong, more of a peach than the purple he loved. But if Jones squinted, he could almost pretend she looked like Leah.

His nucleus said no. "Okay," his mouth said. "Why not."

She was a cell of her word. When he led her to his room, she didn't remark on the shabbiness, or attempt any playful banter. They slipped into the creaking bed and settled against each other, his arms around her, his face pressed into her hair. Floral sweetness. It struck him like lightening. That's what Leah smelled like. It was a precious, useless detail. The relief of remembering was enough to send him drifting into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke, for a single, beautiful moment he had no idea where he was, or who he was with. Then the cell in his arms shifted.

"Good morning, Romeo," she purred.

Jones settled back. He remembered now.

Well, there goes all of it, he thought as he gave her the last of his credits. Still, he gave it without bitterness. It had been so long since he slept without replaying the moment Frank died, he almost forgot what good sleep felt like.

"What if you skipped town for a few days?" Jones asked as he led her to the door. "Might be safer."

The she-cell smiled. "Sure. Maybe."

When she left the room felt emptier, hollow. But his head felt clearer and as he set about washing his face, Jones began considering his options. Recruiting Immunity was out—Yambuku had them under a weird thrall. Getting another pill partner was out. Soloing was iffy. He had enough trouble taking down Thrax, let alone Ebola. And apparently Ebola had been following him for days? That's just creepy, he thought.

Jones was in the middle of brushing his teeth when he thought, Maybe Thrax could help. He sprayed toothpaste everywhere.

"Nuh-uh, no way. Noooo way. Not doing it."

The ring of toothpaste foam made him look like he had rabies. He probably did, if he was mad enough to consider soliciting Thrax's help. His mood grew steadily darker throughout the day as idea after idea kept circling to the same conclusion. Guilt stirred like an unwelcome guest. The last thing he needed on his conscience was another death—trillions, if he counted all the cells in Heidi's body. Thrax was deadly, but Ebola? Ebola could kill thousands.

.

.s.

.

Jones was unprepared for the dizzying wave of déjà-vu as he walked into the Fifth Precinct's lymph node. For a moment he couldn't move, lost in the sight and sound of his past. The wanted posters on the walls. The bitter smell of old coffee on the burner. Ringing phones. Germs being escorted to lockdown. Jones half-expected his old Chief to stick his head out his office and shout, "Jones! Get in here, now!"

Someone pushed past. "Hey, watch it, newbie."

"All cool, man," Jones said. Keep it together, buddy. We ain't in Frank anymore. He adjusted his stolen uniform and made his way to lockdown, looking for all the world like a rookie beat cop fresh on his first assignment. No one looked twice his direction. He moved past the noisier, cramped holding cells and headed towards the quieter, more isolated ones in the back.

Jones rounded a corner. Gotcha.

It was a smaller holding block, dimly lit. Thrax sat on a low bench, hands shackled behind his back to the wall and feet cuffed together. A gag covered his mouth and around his neck was a black band with a Y-shaped red marker. His side where Jones had shot him was still exposed, untreated. At first Jones thought the virus was sleeping. His eyes were closed, head lowered, dreadlocks framing his face.

Then Jones recoiled as Thrax suddenly looked at him, eyes slitted.

"He scares the other junior officers too."

Jones tried not to jump as he turned around. A single cop sat at a guard station, The Heidi Tribune spread in his hands.

"Just checking on the new guy," Jones said, hiding his surprise behind a cough. "Heard they brought him in not too long ago."

"Heard right." A page turned. "You can relax, son. He isn't going anywhere, and even if he does, that antibody will keep him marked."

"What's the plan with him?" Jones asked with studied casualness. They already tagged him? Spit, that was fast. The gag too was an unexpected complication.

The older cop lowered his paper to give Jones a slow once-over. "That's a little above your pay grade, don't you think?" he said, not unkindly.

Jones raised both hands. "Fair enough, fair enough."

"But," the other said, returning the Tribune to eye level, "if I were to guess, with a guy that mean-looking, he'll either be lysed or digested. I reckon the former."

Lysed. Jones froze, torn. If Heidi PD did mean to kill Thrax, justice would be served. But at what cost? Admitting it was like swallowing a cactus, but Thrax stood as his best chance at stopping Yambuku. Watching the two viruses fight proved they were in a league of their own, and if both the brawl on Shane's eye and the most recent bar scuffle proved anything, Jones would need backup. Nasty backup.

"Don't you have some place to be, son?" the older cop said.

Jones beat a hasty retreat, but not before glancing Thrax's way one more time. Thrax hadn't blinked throughout the exchange, but there was something caged about him, a murderer biding his time. The visual sat uneasily on Jones' shoulders as he made his way out of the Precinct.

Jones waited until the body clock read midnight before making his move. Most of the cops were making their nightly sweeps as Heidi slept, the station quiet. Jones went straight for Thrax's cell. A single desk lamp illuminated the area. A different guard sat at the station, head slumped in a cupped hand, eyes closed.

Jones plastered a large smile and sauntered into view. "Hello, hello, hello! Ain't you a lucky guy."

The other cell sprang upright. "Huh? Wha—?"

"Chief sent me to take your shift."

"She did? Oh, wow!" the cop said. He tried to sound alert. "Did she give a reason why?"

"Nah. I think she just wants to put me through the paces and all. You know how it is."

"Mmm, don't I know it." The other cell stood. He took a long stretch and began to gather his things. As he was about leave he paused. "Say, I don't think we've met yet. I know the department is always growing all the time, but I do try say hi to everybody."

"Just got here from the Academy," Jones said. "Thymus Gland grad."

"Hey, I'm a TGA grad myself! Cool beans! Well, I'm sorry you're saddled with nightshift so soon," the other said. He sounded sorry for Jones yet unable to hide the happiness at having the night off. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Helix! Nice to finally meet."

Jones Could he be a partner? What if I'm making a big mistake freeing Thrax took the hand. "I'm, uh, I'm Drix."

"Drix, huh?"

Jones shrugged. "Parents had a thing for medicine labels."

"Well, Drix, great to meet you. If you want, my girl and I are having a cookout this weekend. You should come by! Meet more of the force."

Jones' nucleus ached. "Yeah, that'd be swell."

"Oh, and don't worry bout the virus. He hasn't made a peep or caused any trouble all night." Helix's voice dropped to a hush. "I heard talk they're going to take him to the lysosomes in a few days. Serious stuff."

"You don't say?" Jones said, glancing behind to see Thrax watching them. "Well, I'll make sure that stays that way."

Helix waved and began walking off. Jones fantasized stopping him and spilling everything: how he was Osmosis Jones from Frank City, how they needed to stop an Ebola virus, how Thrax needed to die. How he'd love to go to that cookout. But Helix had already disappeared around the corner and was gone. The moment passed.

"Just me and you now, big guy,"Jones muttered, turning. He tried not to notice the way Thrax tracked his approach as he went to the bars.

"Hear that, Thrax?" Jones said, leaning in. "You're to be lysed soon."

Thrax jerked forward, cuffs rattling. He looked like he wished he could explode Jones into a puddle of cytoplasm.

"At any other time I would've taken a front row seat and watched," Jones continued in the low voice. "Hooo boy, I'd have popcorn ready and everything. But it seems you have a choice. See, I have a problem. An Ebola-sized problem, and I figure you can help me with that."

Thrax's eyes narrowed.

Jones peeked around the corner to double check the lack of activity in the main hallway. Snores and sleeping grunts filled the holds. Jones waited two more seconds before taking the keys from the guard station and opened the hold. Even though Thrax was sitting he seemed larger, more dangerous, as if he wasn't shackled and wounded at all. His open black coat spread like wings on either side of him. That's how he got away, the little voice said. It sounded like Leah again. Just opened that coat and flew when Frank died.

Jones unholstered the gun on his hip and activated it. It hummed in his hand. "Since I'm not into the whole 'blink once if yes, twice if no' schtick, I'm gonna take that gag off. You try to fry me with that claw of yours, or try to escape, or anything like that, I'm leaving you to die. Hell, I almost want you to try. 'Cause the way I hear it, getting lysed is like falling in alcohol. Comprende?"

The virus didn't so much as move a chainlink, expression tight.

Jones kept his gun pointed at Thrax as he reached for the gag's clasp. The red virus' smokiness hung in his nose. It was a strange smell, like burning metal. Jones hastened back the moment the gag unclasped. It slid off Thrax's face and clattered to the ground.

Thrax turned his head and spat, tongue sliding over uneven teeth. "You're like a bad rash, Jones," he finally said, voice a rasping growl. "Always coming back."

"I ain't here to talk about your rash problems," Jones said. "Are you gonna help me or not?"

"I don't work with losers."

Jones crossed his arms. "Says the guy who got his ass handed to him and is now sitting in cuffs."

Thrax lunged, snarling. The snarl turned into a bark of pain as the cuffs' short chain jerked him back. He sank down again, hissing under his breath.

"You sure talk big when you're not the one tied up," Thrax said. "Why don't you take these off then and we'll see who's the tough guy?"

"Or how bout you agree to help me smoke Ebola and I take them off anyway?" Jones replied.

Thrax subsided like a gray sea, face going long and flat as he studied Jones. "Let's get one thing straight," he finally said, eyes flashing. "If I do this, it's not gonna be for you. I'm getting my chain back and I'm killing that Ebola scum because I want to. And when I'm done with them, your nucleus is mine."

"Deal. We kill each other after this nastiness is settled," Jones said.

Thrax smiled. It was a sneering, stretching thing, too many teeth. "Looking forward to it, baby."

As if a flip was switched Thrax suddenly leaned back, relaxed and suave. "So, are you gonna sweet talk a virus all night, or are you gonna take these cuffs off?"

"Antibody first. That thing will act like a target to all other white blood cells," Jones said. A small part of him kept shrieking What are you doing? What are you doing? He shoved it aside. Deal with Ebola first. Then Thrax.

It'd been awhile since Jones removed antibodies, but he guessed it was a little like riding a bike. And of course it had to be the red one, he thought. He was never the best at the reds. Left turn, counter-clockwise, quarter right twist . . . or was it clockwise, then left turn? Worst was how he needed to re-holster the gun and use Thrax's shoulder for stabilization. It was like touching a warm griddle iron. Jones tried to ignore it.

During a particularly hard tug Thrax grunted and half-jerked away.

"This is weird for me too, okay?" Jones snapped.

"Believe me, I'd rather be anywhere else," Thrax said. He kept looking at a corner of the room, mouth a thin line.

Jones stepped away with a sigh of relief as the antibody disengaged. It too clattered to the floor. Thrax cracked his neck on both sides and rolled his shoulders.

The ankle shackles came off next. When Jones removed the lock keeping him to the wall Thrax stood to his full height, head nearly brushing the ceiling. In the dim lamplight he was red-brown, the colour of old blood. His eyes gleamed yellow.

"And these?" Thrax asked, half-turning. His hands were still cuffed behind his back.

"Hold your protozoa. It'd be too suspicious if I escorted you without anything," Jones said.

Thrax clicked his tongue against his teeth and shrugged. "Your play."

"C'mon. And let me do the talking."

Jones closed the cell door and pretended to escort the red virus towards the entrance. There was a lone officer at his station, plugging away at his computer. His tie was askew. He did a double take when he saw them.

"Hey, where are you going with that virus?" he said.

Jones hid a wince and said, "Oh, uh, Chief wanted him moved to the Third Precinct."

"I haven't heard of this," the cop said, standing. There were shadows under his eyes from the blue computer light. "Where's her authorization?"

"Don't you see it? It's right there on your desk," Jones said, walking to him.

"What are you talking about? And who are y—"

Jones clocked him across the temple and the cop fell like a stone. He landed in a pile on the ground and didn't move. Jones went to swipe the car keys on the desk when he noticed a small picture frame. A young girl smiled at him, gap between her teeth.

As Jones made his way back he caught Thrax watching as if he'd seen it all before, almost bored. He'd probably just kill the guy, Jones thought. Explode him or something and make that poor girl an orphan.

"They don't make cops like they used to, eh Jones?" Thrax said as Jones got close.

Jones said nothing but shoved the virus a little harder than necessary towards the door. The steps around the Precinct were empty, the roads sparse with late-night traffic. Jones found the parked police car matching the keys and opened the back door for Thrax. Then Jones got in himself and peeled out of the lot.

Jones avoided the main freeways, keeping to the smaller arteriole streets. I used to drive a car like this and it meant something, he thought. His hands clenched around the wheel as he kept glancing at the rearview mirror, expecting to see flashing lights and hear the sirens wailing traitor, traitor. But nothing followed. The roads stayed clear.

Eventually Jones turned into a small alleyway. His old beat car sat between several dumpsters, dinted and stained. He parked the prowler and opened the door for Thrax. He jangled the keys as the virus climbed out.

"Don't burn me or anything," Jones said as the virus turned around.

"Saving that for later," Thrax said. He was quiet when the cuffs snapped off but held the broken wrist to his chest, long claw dark.

When they were both in the beat car Jones rubbed his neck. "This is kinda how far I thought ahead."

Thrax glanced at the car's dashboard's clock. It read one fifteen in the morning. "Head to the lower intestines."

"Why there?"

"Until I heal up there ain't anything I can do. Now get going. We're gonna pay a cat a visit and he ain't open all night."

.

.s.

.

They drove without speaking. Jones switched the radio on and soft garbled static filled the dark cab. Jones focused on the road, not letting himself sneak glances at the silent virus next to him. This was it, folks. All aboard the crazy train to What-The-Frank Town. Down was up, up was down, Leah was alive, and ten dollar milkshakes cured cancer. If being in a car with a deadly virus he'd busted out of jail meant insanity, then Jones needed a padded room yesterday.

"Take the next exit."

Jones jumped a little, jarred out of his thoughts. He took the exit, the car chuffing as he slowed on the offramp. For the next several minutes there were several tense left here, go right, left up ahead.

At last Thrax said, "Alright, we're here."

Jones blinked. "A bar? What the hell are w—"

Thrax glared at him. "Don't get in my way and we'll get along fine." He paused, upper lip curling. "And get out of those clothes, Officer."

Jones looked down. He was still in his stolen police uniform.

Jones parked the dinger in another alley, hidden from the main strip. Thrax got out of the car and was already striding away, a virus on a mission. Jones tore off the uniform and threw on his old white shirt and jacket. He caught up to Thrax just as he was entering the joint.

Opulence slapped Jones in the face the moment he walked in. Plasma lamps glowed softly next to gold and green banisters. A bar spanned the far wall, its shelves filled with tall, elegant bottles. Low chatter came from several cells in suits. Despite the luxury and class Jones felt his hackles rise. There was an edginess most the bars he'd frequented never had. He couldn't put his thumb on it. He resisted the urge to palm his gun.

Tarnished mirrors reflected Jones' approach as he went to the bar. He found Thrax already there, left hand tucked into the front of his coat. A bartender appeared, drying a glass. She was a large and hulking cell, arms straining at the rolled sleeves. She was even taller than Thrax.

"What'll it be?" she asked. Her voice was like rocks grinding together.

"Mnnn. I think I'll have a new coat and pair of shoes," Thrax said.

The rag in her hands stopped. After a careful moment the bartender set the glass down. " Follow me." Then she paused. She jerked her chin towards Jones. "Hey. Is that a cop?"

Thrax lazily glanced Jones' way. "Don't worry about him, doll. He ain't anymore."

Jones shifted, hating the way Thrax always found someone's soft spots. Jones was miles from what a cop should be doing. He followed after Thrax and the bartender, feeling as if he was nothing but glorified backup.

They left the main bar and entered a small corridor. The air was old, woody. A glow of light outlined a door at the end.

The bartender knocked on it. "Holo? Another one for you," she said. She then nodded to Thrax. "Go in."

She gave Jones a final glance as he passed by, but didn't stop him.

Jones stepped inside and immediately blinked. A tailor shop?

The place had space enough for three cells. Cloth of every shade were folded in a neat columns, creating a lingering musty odor. A heavy satin curtain covered a changing room while a three-paned mirror crowded the other corner. A little cell in a three-piece suit stood at the foot of a large green germ, measuring tape in his hand. Both looked up as Thrax and Jones entered.

"I don't know you," the little cell said to Thrax. Jones gave him a narrow side-eye. A fibroblast? Working at this unsavory hour for this unsavory sort?

"A cell with a reputation ain't that hard to find," Thrax said, making a show of looking around. In the cramped space he seemed a giant. "Now, you and I have several things to discuss, and I'd prefer to do that without the audience."

"I had the appointment first, pal," the other patron said. His thighs looked like they could crush Jones in two.

Thrax stared at him in a Not now, not tonight kind of way.

The germ puffed and made a loud show of sputtering and huffing. Then, as if it'd been his plan all along, turned to the fibroblast and said, "Same time tomorrow, Holo?"

The fibroblast bowed. "Of course, Mr. R."

Still huffing and muttering, the germ gathered his coat and hat and gave Thrax one last glare before squeezing through the door.

The fibroblast didn't seem worried at the sudden change of clients, face placid. "I am Holo. It's a pleasure, Mr. . . ?"

"Thrax."

Holo's eyes flicked toward Jones, but didn't ask for his name. Jones didn't offer.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Thrax?" Holo asked, promptly ignoring Jones.

Thrax drew his limp left wrist from his coat. "They say you're the one to visit if one needs fixing."

Holo stared at the wrist with clinical interest. After a pause he said, "Come with me, please. I'll see what I can do."

The fibroblast pressed a floorboard with his shoe and the center pedestal depressed into the floor, reveling a staircase. He went down. Thrax descended after him, bending so not to hit his head. Jones went last.

The air changed and became cool, scentless. When Jones reached the last step he saw they were in a lab of sorts. There were rows and rows of pillars of light, and as Jones pulled close to one, he saw it was filled with the building solution for creation. Jones bristled. This was stem cell stuff. Without proper documentation, highly illegal. The urge to intervene bit at his heels as he walked past the columns. He made a note to leave an anonymous tip with Immunity after this whole debacle cleared.

Holo had Thrax sit in a chair at what appeared to be a medical station. He made the virus put his injured hand on a table.

"It's a clean break," the fibroblast said. Jones noticed he didn't ask how it was broken.

"Do your thing, doc. Fix it."

Holo went to another table and busied himself. Jones scooted closer. He watched as Holo shaped a nascent microtubule into a flexible cast around Thrax's wrist and palm, keeping the long fingers and thumb free. Then the fibroblast began applying a different material to the damaged coat. At Jones' angle he couldn't see what he was doing, but the next time he sat back, Jones saw the hole in both the coat and turtleneck were patched up, as if they'd never been burned in the first place.

Thrax twisted and turned his hand, face a study of concentration. The cast gleamed like a pearl in the lab's blue light.

"How long before it's back in business?" Thrax asked. There was something tight in his voice.

"Depends on how long you let it rest. A week, two on the outside?"

Thrax snatched Holo by the throat with his uninjured hand and lifted until the cell's feet dangled. "You'll need to do better than that."

"There's no . . . rushing . . . this—needs . . . time—" Holo stopped talking and began to gurgle, legs kicking.

Jones perked in alarm. "Yo, Thrax. How bout you let the guy go, okay?"

"Or what? You'll shoot me?"

Jones brought his gun to bear and moved closer. "Maybe I will."

Thrax locked eyes with him. "Miss, and this time I'll kill you for good."

Jones widened his stance and relaxed his grip. He took aim.

For a moment Jones thought Thrax was going to strangle the cell right in front of him. Just as Jones' trigger finger tightened, Thrax dropped him. Holo fell to his knees, coughing. Thrax examined his fingers, nonplussed.

"Please, put your gun down," Holo said to Jones when he could talk, rubbing his throat. "I'd rather you not destroy my lab."

Jones stared at him in a Are you serious right now? He lowered the gun.

Holo wobbled as he stood. "You viruses don't have the amorphous membrane cells do. It will take time before your hand becomes fully functional and for your side to heal."

Thrax stood. He tested his wrist one more time, then rested a flat hand against the now-hidden plasma wound. "Mmn. Ain't that a shame."

Then he began to stride away.

"The first visit is free, but I will expect payment for future consultations," Holo said after him.

"Sure thing, doc," Thrax tossed over his shoulder. Then he was gone, back up the staircase.

Jones was close enough to hear Holo sigh.

"What are you doing here?" Jones asked him, voice pitched low. He'd known some fibroblasts back in Frank's body. Their type worked in the extracellular matrix factories, building and repairing cells. They were good people.

"I run a business," the fibroblast said, busying himself with some vials. He didn't look at Jones. "What are you doing?"

What am I doing? Jones knew he was supposedly righting a wrong, but it was starting to feel he was losing control of the situation. Stealing cars, lying to and assaulting police, not to mention busting out a deadly virus out of jail, were all good indicators at how sideways everything was becoming.

.

.s.

.

Grease and dust covered every surface of the safe house. Jones hadn't seen this many brown stains since his days at Crack Central. A hodgepodge of old couches, stacked chairs, and Frank-knows-what made the place feel like a cramped maze. It could've been a furniture store at some point. Maybe. It was hard to tell.

The ex-cop glanced towards the front of the main room. Thrax was lounging on a couch by a large covered window, eyes closed. Thrax hadn't moved since they gotten to the safe house that morning, a faint scowl between his brows as he slept. If he was even sleeping. The burn streak near his eye shone like a bruise, promising to scar.

It dawned on Jones he knew next to nothing about Thrax. He knew Thrax killed and killed often, recalling the virus bragging about the beads in his chain, but where did he come from? The Ebola virus had accused him of being a new thug. How much of that was true or hot talk? Was he Get my own chapter in the medical books! the original of his kind, or were there others like him in the world?

Jones turned away. It didn't matter. None of it did. At the end of all this, Thrax was going to die.

He spent the next half hour scrounging for food, his mitochondria grumbling for sugar. At last he found an old break room. An fridge sulked in a corner, empty. Then he found a dust-covered jar of glucose paste in one of the cabinets. He opened it. It tasted like someone had wiped their ass with it, but at least it dulled the hunger.

At a certain point his eyelids began drooping. But instead of finding a spot to sleep, Jones lost himself in the warehouse, walking in a direction until some obstacle made him turn around. The air was musty, as no one had breathed it for a long time. His shoe prints soon covered the passageways between the stacked debris.

"Not looking so good, Jones," Thrax's voice hissed in his ear.

Jones spun around. The corridor was empty. I'm losing my mind, he thought.

The ex-cop was halfway back to the main room when he heard a buzz of unfamiliar voices. Jones went into a crouching jog, hand on his gun. When he was close enough he hid behind two overturned tables and peeked between their gap.

Ten germs of varying shape and height stood before Thrax. Several looked like they'd come straight out of a low-budget mafia movie, their pinstripe suits gaudy next to Thrax's imposing black coat.

Jones noticed Thrax kept his left hand tucked in his coat, hidden.

". . . few of us got out before the fuzz arrived. We wanted to know if we were still heading to the hypi—uh, hypa—"

"Change of plan, boys. Y'all can go back to your little side-cons. I've got a bigger fish to fry," Thrax said.

One of them blinked. "Wait . . . you done with us?"

"Ding, ding, ding! Someone give this fellow a prize."

There was a low of murmur as several germs glanced at each other. The one closest to Jones whispered to another germ He killed me boss for this.

Someone in the back muttered, "You've been whupped."

Thrax looked up so fast his dreadlocks whipped his face. "What was that?"

At first no one wanted to meet Thrax's eyes. Then a green germ stepped to the front, chin raised. "We all heard what happened to you at Sequence. I say good riddance. Why should we follow a boss who gets bea—"

Thrax pounced, bowling the smaller germ to the ground. The germ was still gasping when Thrax tore off one of his arms and began to beat him with it, cytoplasm gushing everywhere. Like a wing off a fly, Jones thought, unable to look away. The germ screamed and tried to wiggle free, but Thrax kept him pinned. Then his head caved in. The screaming stopped.

The rage simmered into a pleasant smile. Thrax didn't seem to notice the green cytoplasm flecking his face as he stood up, injured wrist still tucked in his coat.

"Show of hands. Anyone got anything else to add?" he drawled, waving the dismembered arm.

No one moved.

"Good." Thrax tossed the arm. It landed with an obscene splat. "Now beat it. I'm sick of looking at your ugly mugs."

The remaining germs fell over each other rushing for the exit.

When they were gone Jones left his hiding nook and walked into view. "They don't make germs the way they used to, huh?" he said, leaning against a doorpost.

"Mnn." Thrax flicked cytoplasm off his fingers.

Jones frowned. "Shouldn't we've kept the backup?"

Thrax jerked his chin after the absent germs. "You think they'd make a difference?"

"Never stopped you from hiring thugs before."

"I'll agree a good heist needs a good distraction, but this is a different game we're trying to play." Thrax's left hand moved towards the other wrist before pausing, fingers tented, as if to pluck a chain no longer there. Thrax growled, face contorting as he dropped the hand. "Besides, I don't want the extra baggage. You and me? That's business. But Ebola? It's personal, baby."

Jones found himself puffing. "Business? Business? You murdered Frank—you murdered everybody! This is one hundred fifty percent personal between us."

"Careful, Jones," Thrax said, stretching the 's' between his teeth. "Let's not get heated about this quite yet." He then kicked the body. It flopped wetly, smearing the ground. "Now do something useful and get rid of this."

Jones snorted. "I ain't your lackey. You get rid of it."

But Thrax was already smoothing back his dreadlocks and shrugging, as if he was done with the conversation and everyone involved with it. Jones went to walk away, cytoplasm tight. That glucose paste wasn't sitting well.

"You led that Ebola virus straight to me, didn't you."

Jones looked up and found Thrax studying him. His face was hard to read, cool.

"And if I did?"

To Jones' surprise, Thrax chuckled. There was nothing friendly about it. "I'd say I'd be impressed. You'd almost make a good virus."

Jones' hands clenched as something went cold inside him. "You should've worn that gag more often—you look good with your mouth shut."

Thrax's eyes narrowed into slits. Within seconds Jones found himself pressed against the wall as Thrax crowded his personal space, his breath hot on Jones' cheek.

"You weren't listening," Thrax hissed. "I said you'd make a good virus, not a smart one. Next time you buy someone like Ebola, know the price first."

A strange calmness descended on Jones. He didn't reach for his gun. Didn't look away. "And what's your price, Thrax?" he asked. He was surprised his voice was level. What will I owe after all this is done?

Thrax pulled away with a sneer. "Oh, we'll worry about that later." With one last kick to the dead germ he stalked deeper into the warehouse, leaving Jones to wonder what the Frank just happened.

.

.s.

.

They were wasting time.

Jones lost track of how many times he paced the warehouse. Whether by accident or design, he and Thrax hadn't spoken since their last exchange two days ago. They needed to stop Ebola, not do whatever the hell they were doing now.

From the very start Jones admitted he knew next to nothing about Ebola. Drix would've, though. Jones pinched the space between his eyes. A college boy like him would've known. He pictured the pill rattling off a series of facts, except in his mind Drix spoke in a low burr, the words washed out and inaudible. As hard as he strained, he couldn't make out what his partner was saying.

And unlike in the City of Frank, he doubted he could call up the Brain Information Library and ask about Ebola. Did Heidi even know about Ebola? He considered clubbing another cop and hijacking his phone, but immediately shook his head. After all the shit he'd pulled with HPD, he probably was a wanted cell by now. And with the cops at the Precinct having seen his face, Jones doubted he could go anywhere without a disguise.

Jones froze. Why didn't he just do that? He looked over his shoulder. The dark warehouse stared back. If Thrax was somewhere in there, he clearly didn't want to be found.

"The hell with this," Jones said.

After shifting into a new disguise, the ex-cop took the dinger and began driving. At first he drove just to drive, windows rolled down to feel a breeze through his membrane. Then something in his nucleus told him to drive to Livertown, to the organ he'd first met Ebola bodies ago. Maybe the virus had a pattern too, just like Thrax.

As he drove, no billboard flashed Most Wanted: Ebola! The intercoms blared about the upcoming bachelorette petting zoo party! rather than escape routes in the event of Heidi's death, and instead of seeing sweeping teams of cops, Jones witnessed an officer helping an old lady getting a cat out of a tree. Business as usual. No one appeared to know they were all in a slowly dying city, that Heidi was in danger from a monster. A monster he brought to kill a different monster.

Jones' jaws clenched.

Livertown was quiet. Jones got out of the car, membrane tight from the disguise and from the heavy feeling sitting inside him. The usual work crews were absent, and when he entered the main lobby, no one stopped or greeted him. Jones inched his way in deeper, keenly aware he wasn't authorized to be there.

"Hellooooo? Anyone here?" Jones frowned at the empty reception desks. It was as if everyone was on a communal lunch break, except it was already late afternoon. He went past the lobby and through the main double doors to enter a large room. The room was so expansive the walls faded into murk. Countless rows of squat, open vats covered the floor, each slapped with a bright yellow COAGULATION PROTEIN label. Jones would've kept walking if the control panels on each of the vats hadn't appeared covered in deep slashes.

He went to one and peered inside. Jones was no liver cell, but even he could recognize something wasn't right. What should've been vibrant chains of amino acids was a stagnant soup that gave off a faint, foul odor. The smell reminded Jones of the germ slowly rotting at the safe house. A sense of unease descended on his shoulders, similar to when he'd investigated the burned saliva boat in Frank's throat. Where were all the workers?

Jones left the Livertown factory but didn't go far, deciding to circle around the plant to investigate further damage. What he hadn't counted on was seeing the Ebola virus themselves. He stiffened, hand flying to his holstered gun. At first he thought the virus was painting something on the side of a blood vessel. No, not painting. Stroking? What the Frank are they doing? he thought.

Jones resisted the instinct to shoot, remembering he was on recon only. No more jumping out of helicopters and screwing everything up, his old Chief snapped in his ear. Jones reluctantly re-holstered the gun. The shot would come later.

"I warned you to leave, Mr. Jones," the Ebola virus said, turning when Jones walked into view. There was something less constrained about the virus, the proportions oddly stretched. They seemed taller than the ex-cop remembered, fingers longer. The eyes rolled in their sockets, catchlights gleaming wetly.

"I ain't the leaving type," Jones said. They can see right through my disguise? Well, spit.

"Ah. The dying kind, then." Yambuku resumed stroking the blood vessel. The vessel seemed to melt like hot wax, globules dripping off. Jones gritted his teeth, hating his inaction.

A pair of officers came around the corner, quietly conversing between themselves. At first Jones thought they would stop, gawk, pull out their guns, anything. But they continued without stopping, as if there was nothing to see in the first place. If anything they gave Jones a narrowed side-eye before trudging on.

The Ebola virus didn't pause their activity once, as if confident they weren't going to be stopped. Jones' disappointment burned like a shot of adrenaline as he turned to address the virus.

"Back in the club. Why didn't you smoke Thrax?" Jones asked. "Why are you still in this body?"

"Savoring a kill is one of life's true delights," Yambuku replied. It was almost hypnotizing watching them pet the vessel, each stroke bringing more lining to slough off. "There's a timing to everything, and rushing would spoil the game."

"So, this is just a game to you? You're only killing this girl to prove you're better?"

"Humiliating an enemy is much more fun than simply killing them. Besides, I saw the way you looked at Mr. Thrax. I know you agree with me." Jones forced himself not to move as Ebola leaned close. "You liked it. You liked it very much."

There was no denying what Jones felt when he saw Thrax's pain. I'll like it better when both of you are dead and gone, he thought, but kept that to himself.

"Yeah, but, couldn't you just humiliate Thrax and leave Heidi alone?" Jones tried again. His fingers twitched with the urge to blow the strange snake-head off.

Yambuku sighed, moving back. "White blood cells, always a little slow on the uptake. To destroy this body is to humiliate Mr. Thrax. It's been many years since I've done a solo show, but I think I'll mimic our mutual friend on that front. Of course, it's not how we viruses are supposed to work. We're meant to infect host cells for reproduction. Our offspring in turn infect new cells, reproduce, and on and on it goes until we completely overwhelm the city." They smiled. "Isn't that right, Mr. Thrax?"

Jones spun around in time to see Thrax ooze out of the shadows, injured hand tucked in its usual place in his coat. His gaze flicked to Jones for a second before resting on Ebola. The ex-cop tensed. How much of the conversation had the red guy heard?

Yambuku's smile stretched to obscene proportions. Something like saliva dribbled between the teeth. Jones half expected it to hiss when it hit the ground. "I see you escaped from Immunity. Then again, I would've been disappointed if you hadn't."

Thrax stepped closer, upper lip pulled in a sneer.

"Come to admire a real virus' handiwork? Or do you miss this trinket?" the Ebola virus said, lifting the beaded chain.

Thrax visibly controlled his temper. "Keep it for now, baby. I'll be getting that back real soon."

"I plan on it. After all, I'm going to stuff it down your throat."

Thrax's eyes narrowed but didn't reply.

"As nice as this reunion is, I'm quite busy. Unless you've come for a rematch . . .? No? Good." Yambuku half-bowed. "It's always refreshing to meet another virus who appreciates good timing."

Instead of leaping at Ebola as he'd done to the germ in the warehouse, Thrax returned the bow with a faint, mocking nod. Then, without a glance at Jones, began to stride away.

Jones went to run after him when Ebola's mouth pressed to his ear. "Interesting game you're playing, Mr. Jones."

"What th—"

Yambuku's strange eyes followed him as Jones stumbled back, face contorting in disgust at the pus-yellow smell. "Last warning, Officer. Keep clear and leave this body before it's too late."

Could say the same to you, fugly, Jones thought as he jogged after Thrax. He wiped the side of his face where Ebola's breath had condensed, slime coating his fingers. Disgusting.

When Jones finally caught up with Thrax he could feel the other's radiating anger. For a moment they walked in silence, neither speaking. It was heavy company.

"How'd you get here?" Jones finally said, if only to change the mood.

Thrax thew him a look that said How are you still alive? "You're not the only one who can steal a car, idiot. Figured you were gonna do something stupid."

Jones bristled. "I couldn't stay in that warehouse anymore. I had to do something."

"And going directly to Ebola was your bright idea?"

"We don't talk for two straight days and suddenly you're busting my chops? I wanted to see what I could find out. Running into Ebola was totally unexpected, I swear."

At Thrax's silence, Jones added, "I went into one of the factories. No one was there."

Thrax grunted. "Probably all killed."

All of them? Jones felt his nucleus bottom out. "All the coagulant proteins are destroyed too," he said.

"That so."

When it became clear he'd say no more, Jones bristled again. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"I'm in the dark here—how much d'you know about this?"

Thrax stopped walking and rounded on him, dreadlocks swinging. Jones quickly glanced for cops. While he wore a disguise, Thrax was impossible to miss.

"And how don't you know this?" Thrax said, leaning over him with a withering glare. "You lured Ebola here. You're responsible for this. How can you not know how the damn thing kills?"

"Because—" Jones stopped. Because what? He thought it took a virus to kill a virus? Thought Ebola would ice Thrax and move on? Thought nothing could be worse than Thrax? As he stared at Thrax's mounting anger, he realized he had no excuse.

"Please." Jones' voice was low. "I'm ready to learn."

For a moment it looked like Thrax would keep walking, face a mask of contempt. Then he too seemed to check the surroundings for cops, gaze flicking towards the various liver cells trudging past. A few cars passed, none of them HPD.

"Then think," he said, growling. "What is Ebola?"

"A virus?"

"What kind of virus?"

It was as if Jones was back in class, only he'd forgotten to study and it was the day of the final. ". . . a bad one?"

Thrax hissed and shook his head. "The type that cause hemorrhagic fever. You know what 'hemorrhage' means, right?"

"Yo, don't get snooty with me. I know what hemorrhage—" Jones' face slackened. "Oh. Ohhh."

"Without coagulants—"

"—she'll bleed. A lot. From everywhere."

"It's more complicated than that, but yeah, you get the idea. There's a whole lot of other shit that'll happen first, but Ebola'll aim to take the whole system down, top to bottom," Thrax said, waving a hand to encompass all of the scenery. His tone was one of professional disinterest.

"What will Ebola hit next?"

"Mn. Maybe the stomach lining. Maybe the adrenals. Tough to say." Thrax paused. "You do know where the adrenals are, right?"

"Look, I didn't have no fancy schooling, okay?"

Thrax sneered. "Clearly."

"What about you, then? With all this know-how, you a college boy too?"

Thrax stared at him, brows raised. Even before the words left Jones' mouth he was shocked. "Never mind," Jones quickly said. "Forget it."

Thrax gave him one last strange side-eye before moving on.

What are you, stupid? Jones wanted to slap himself. He wanted to know about Ebola, not Thrax.

.

.s.

.

Thrax was flying away, coat wings spread. Jones leapt after him but everything felt coagulated, wrong. There was a stumble, a misstep, and suddenly Thrax was growing smaller and smaller, Frank's DNA bead in hand. If only Jones had a coat like Thrax then he could fly too, but it was hard to think over the sound of someone screaming, screaming no no no no NO—

Jones bolted upright, gasping. It took a minute of blind staring before he remembered he was in an abandoned lymph-monitoring station in the pinky toe. On a couch. In a dark room.

"Thought you'd never shut up."

Jones looked across the space. Thrax sat in a chair, yellow eyes glowing in the murk.

"What's the matter, Jonesy? Daddy Thrax give you bad dreams?"

Jones got off the couch, hate like a black tar inside him. "Shuddup."

"If I'd known you'd make this much noise, I would've cut your tongue out."

Jones threw his jacket on and stormed out, making sure to slam the door behind him. It was childish and stupid, but still satisfying. Despite Heidi's rising internal temperature a lymph waterfall gushed nearby, kicking up a cold breeze. He hiked his jacket higher. It smelled faintly cloying, like discarded candy wrappers.

When Jones reached the lookout point he leaned against the railing, watching the contained violence beneath, spray moisturizing his face. Despite the beauty Jones knew the danger of an accidental tumble. One wrong move and a cell could find themselves trapped in the green fluid.

Trapped, trapped. The ex-cop rested his chin in a cupped hand, brooding. Thrax would've fried the city by now. Yet Heidi was still alive, despite it being forty-eight hours since they left Livertown, and if Jones was right, today would mark the fifth day since Ebola announced their plans on killing her. Jones wasn't about to look a gift protozoa in the mouth, but that left the question how much time was left? How long before Yambuku caused irreparable damage?

Overhead speakers blared over the roar of the falls: ". . . flu-like symptoms are keeping our Heidi bedridden, but don't worry citizens! Let's do our best to get her ready for the petting zoo bachelorette party next weekend! Let's do our best . . ."

Jones shook his head and said aloud, "They know something's up, but why can't they just see it? It's literally staring them in the face."

"Because y'all's stupid."

Jones tensed. He looked over his shoulder to find Thrax standing some distance away, coat pulled tight against the chill.

"Y'all are so focused on your daily routines half the time you don't notice what's going on. With all the things that slip by, sometimes taking down a city is the easiest thing there is. Heh. Like looting a honey pot."

"Oh, yeah?" Jones said, glowering. His grip tightened on the railing. "Then how come I caught onto your sorry ass when no one else did?"

Thrax glanced at him from the corner of an eye. "Didn't make a difference, did it."

Jones turned, fingers twitching. "I'm getting real tired of your shit."

"And how do you think I feel, Jones?" The name was spat like a curse. "D'you think I want to be here with you in this dump? Heidi was mine. Everything was mine. What makes you so damn hard to get rid of?"

"Say what?"

Thrax took a heavy step forward, growling. "You're the only cell that's come close to stopping me twice. There won't be a third time."

Jones whipped out the gun and leveled it between Thrax's eyes.

The virus drew short. "Be cool, yo. D'you even know what kills Ebola?"

"Do you?" Jones shot back.

Thrax pulled his left hand out of his coat. The long claw was dark.

"And if we don't have that?" Jones asked.

"We will."

"But if we don't?"

Thrax glared, brows furrowing into a scowl.

"Your glow stick better work soon," Jones said, "or I swear to Frank I'm blasting a hole through your head and taking my chances with Ebola myself."

Thrax snorted. He ignored the gun still pointing at his head and glanced at the waterfall, face going bored. "Like a cow pissing on a flat rock," he said after a moment, then walked away.

.

.s.

.

By the end of the day Thrax made them move to a different safe house, one in the kidneys. As they drove, it didn't take long before Jones was shifting in his seat and plucking at his jacket's collar. He glanced at the car's dashboard. 102.4 degrees. Rolling down the windows did little good: the air was warm and sticky and clung to his membrane. Thrax opened his coat and seemed undisturbed by the fever's warmth, staring out the window when all Jones wanted to do was go back to the waterfall.

The new safe house was little more than a run down gas station-garage complex in a run down part of the left kidney. Bums and drifters glanced their way but kept about their business. Thrax and Jones went their separate ways the moment they went inside, Jones finding a secluded spot to bunk down while Thrax disappeared deeper into the main garage. Yet as the ex-cop settled to catch some sleep, doubt gnawed at him. Maybe he was making an even bigger fuck up with all this. It'd match his MO, wouldn't it? Jones closed his eyes. Just one screw up after another.

When Jones woke some time later, he felt less rested than before. The air tasted hot and stale. Light streamed in through the windows, illuminating an otherwise dim garage. Heidi's body clock read nine thirty in the morning. He left his nook, mitochondria aching. As he scrounged the various cabinets for glucose, Jones caught Thrax sitting at an oil-stained bench, staring intently at the long claw. He kept furling and unfurling the hand, the slender fingers dark.

Jones glanced aside. Next to Thrax was a small radio. Jones pretended not to notice the virus as he walked over and gave the dusty knob a fiddle. When it wouldn't turn on, he gave the radio a couple whacks. It spluttered to life, hissing.

". . . oining us for the morning report. There's concern at the over-secretion of water as the small intestine crypt enterocyte plants continue to malfunction. To help us explain the sudden onset of gastrointestinal fluid, we have with us Mrs. Traci Cilia, CEO of AbsorbCorp. Traci, so good to have you with us. My first question refers to the chloride chan—"

Jones clicked it off. The silence buzzed.

"What'll happened once Ebola hits the adrenals?" Jones asked.

Thrax looked over to him. "Why? Curious to know how little Heidi will die?"

Jones stiffened.

"How many bodies were you following me for, anyway?" Thrax looked back at his hand. "Five? Ten? You must be used to watching them burn by now."

Jones smiled with his teeth. "And still no name in the big ole medical book, eh?"

Thrax shot to his feet so suddenly his stool toppled over.

Jones continued, voice cool. "You ain't ever getting that chapter, Thrax."

For a moment Thrax looked like he would cut Jones to pieces. Then he doubled over, laughing. "Ha ha ha! Jones, you realize all this time you were chasing me, you could've started a new life for yourself? Started fresh, found a new girl? Frank's dead, yo. Move on."

Find a new—?

"No one will replace Leah," Jones heard himself say, swept in the memory of her soft (firm?) lips pressed to his, the taste of her, the feel of her, the promise of what could've happened if he'd saved Frank—

A slow creeping smile split Thrax's face. "Leah, Leah . . . ohhh, yeaaah. How's that smokeshow doing these days? Wait, hold up, I remember. She must be as dead as boiled lobst—"

The virus' head snapped back as Jones punched him in the face. Thrax stumbled over the fallen stool, hand swinging out in time to catch the bench. He wiped spittle from his mouth as he straightened.

"My man Jones, always a disappointment."

"I'm not your man."

"Figure of speech, baby."

Thrax leapt at him, rushing low and fast. They met with a flurry of kicks and punches, each aiming to knock the other down. Jones skidded across the floor. Move on? He dodged a hit. Move on? He blocked a kick and slammed one of his own against Thrax's shin. How the Frank could he when his past, present, and future was currently fighting with him?

Jones fought recklessly, all thoughts of the grand plan for Ebola flying away. He stopped noticing the cuts and punches, too focused on wiping that hateful leer off Thrax's face than the dim alarm spreading through him. Pain became inconsequential. Jones ducked a blow that would've splattered something. He returned the favor and caught Thrax on the chin. The virus staggered back, grunting.

"C'mon, you bastard," Jones said. "That the best you got?"

Thrax response was a sudden onslaught of roundhouse kicks, each one faster than the other. Jones found himself losing more and more ground, unable to find a hole in the other's defense. When he finally managed to get a lucky shot along Thrax's side, a hot hand wrapped around his throat. The thought I really have to learn to get outta this hold skyrocketed through Jones before his back slammed the ground.

"Last time I didn't make sure you were dead," Thrax said above him, yellow eyes slitted. "I won't make that mistake again."

Thrax lifted his left hand high.

Jones blinked. "Your hand!"

Thrax paused and looked up. The long claw was orange.

Jones wasn't going to stick around around to demonstrate if it worked. If you can't win, cheat. He threw sandy debris in Thrax's face and kicked. Thrax shook his head, hissing, the hold loosening enough for Jones to wiggle free. He quickly backed up, cytoplasm pounding, but Thrax seemed to forget Jones existed, a maniacal smile devouring his face as he stared at his claw.

"Oooooh, now we bring the fi-iii-ire!" Thrax half-sang as he stood. He sliced off the microtubule cast, admiring the unadorned hand. After a moment he half-glanced Jones' way. "We finish this later."

Jones barely nodded. He was tired, hot, sore, and wanted nothing more than to reach the conclusion of the nightmare. He was turning to leave—to sleep? to lick his wounds?—when he heard Thrax growl behind him,

"And I will get my chapter."

Jones paused. He wanted to shout no, no you're not. That's not how life works: the bad guy dies, the good guy wins and gets the girl. Except life wasn't that, was it? Thrax lived while Jones lost and Leah died. Life was a mockery.

"Yeah. As a footnote, maybe," Jones said, chin high as he faced the virus. "If that."

Thrax's eyes narrowed, expression going long and flat. When the moment stretched and became something else, Jones turned again to leave. He felt like a collection of bruises. Moving ached.

"Then time to roll," Thrax said.

Jones stopped. Of all the things he was expecting to hear, that wasn't it. He looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"Once Ebola hits the adrenals, it'll be the beginning of the end. Do you want to save this girl or not?"

Why do you? Jones wondered, suddenly suspicious. "Shouldn't we have a plan?" he asked, feeling he was missing a piece of the story.

"Plan?" Thrax donned a pair of sunglasses. "I kill Ebola. You stay out of my way. How's that for plan?"

Jones didn't reply. He doubted the gun in his holster would be enough to cut it if it ever got heavy with Ebola.

"Why not let Heidi die?" he suddenly asked. "What's the sudden rush?"

Thrax continued striding towards the exit. "Stay if you want, but I've a virus to kill and a chain to snatch."

Jones' eyes narrowed. "You don't want Ebola to get any credit, do you."

Thrax paused, left hand on the doorframe. His long claw dug into the wood, orange cracks spidering out. He glared over his shoulder, sunglasses dark. "Don't get cute. It ain't a good look on you."

Jones scratched his chin, making a show of frowning. "Y'know, even if you do smoke Heidi, there's a good chance they'll think it's from Ebola. It's been several days and she's been shitting and vomiting and acting nothing like your MO."

The spidering cracks grew larger. Orange ooze started bubbling up. "Your point?"

Jones took a breath and nodded. "After we finish Ebola, you leave Heidi alone. We both know it'd be a wasted job if you did."

Thrax said nothing for a heartbeat. Then he took his hand off the doorframe. After a moment the cracks stopped spreading, the burning ooze turning dark and sluggish.

"We're gonna play this out to the end," Thrax said. He was a dark shape in the doorway, a hitman on a schedule. He stepped outside. "My way."

.

.s.

.

The safe house was closer to the adrenals than Jones realized. As with Livertown, the adrenals were oddly empty, the usual bustle of working cells absent. All the same, Thrax ran in a low crouch, keeping out of the view of windows. Jones followed several beats behind, gun ready and loaded. As they neared the gland, Jones experienced a weird nostalgia. It felt he was back in the FPD, about to commence a sting. Even the excitement flip-flopping in his nucleus was the same. As they crouched by the main entrance, for a single moment Jones wondered how different life would've been if Thrax had been a white blood cell rather than a virus.

Thrax used his claw to cut through the main lab's membrane barrier. It sizzled and peeled away like burning paper. Despite the destruction, Jones couldn't help but appreciate the brutal utility of it.

No one stopped them as they entered the main lab. The lights flickered on and off as sparks sizzled from several large panels. It looked as if someone had taken a club to them. Above each panel was a warning: "BLOOD PRESSURE REGULATION. CAUTION. FAILURE OF STEROID PRODUCTION WILL CAUSE CIRCULATORY FAILURE."

A couple of workers slouched in their chairs as if taking a nap. When Jones moved to touch one of them, she toppled over, neck slashed micrometers to decapitation. Jones grimaced but hurried after Thrax, knowing it was too late for any of them. The air had a hot, caustic stink to it. It grew worse the farther they traveled in the adrenal labs, the smell becoming almost claustrophobic. As they jogged Jones became aware of an odd clang! clang! clang! down the hallway. His grip on the gun tightened.

The hallway ended in a large manufacturing station. Yambuku was in the centre, smashing more panels with their knotted tail. Sparks flew. The air stank. Workers lay strewn on the ground, various cytoplasms puddling the ground. Ebola spun with a wrinkled snarl as Jones and Thrax entered the station. Ebola loomed over Thrax, snake head distinctively monstrous, the needled teeth glistening against the light of the burning panels. The white eyes narrowed when they spied Jones.

Jones whistled. "Man, you sure got ugly."

The reply dripped between the teeth. "Chosen how to die, Mr. Jones?"

Jones shook his head. "Y'know I couldn't let you do this."

Yambuku nodded. Jones couldn't tell if Ebola was impressed or mocking. "For a white blood cell, there's quite a bit of virus in you."

Before Jones could reply, Thrax stepped forward with a sneer, long claw glowing hot. "I'm here to collect what's mine, yo."

"Come get it, then," Ebola said. They reached down and with one hand threw a dead cell towards him. Thrax hardly finished dodging when Yambuku was besides him, claws outstretched. They met with violence, each blow aiming to kill. Thrax kept an eye on the other's knotted tail as they fought, more than once avoiding a wounding blow. Jones palmed his gun, circling the fighting viruses in search for the best shot.

Why take a shot at all?

"Now, Thrax!" Jones suddenly shouted.

Yambuku's head snapped towards him. Jones waved, smiling. The virus broke into snarls as Thrax sliced his claw across their chest. They clapped a hand to the cut and staggered back, the wound pulsing a fearsome orange.

"I'm no cell, to die by so simple a trick," Yambuku said, but nonetheless cut themselves above and below the slash. Cytoplasm oozed like sludge, half orange, half green. The spreading orange lines dulled and turned dark.

Ebola rushed at Thrax again. They met, separated, circled, met again, each time drawing the circle smaller and smaller until there was no space between them at all. Then Yambuku and Thrax locked hands, each straining against the other. Their feet slid and slipped in the various cytoplasms covering the floor. Thrax stabbed his index claw straight through Ebola's wrist, causing it to bubble orange. Yambuku's jaws opened wide. Thrax fell to his knees and ducked to avoid Yambuku's snapping teeth.

The Ebola virus immediately pressed their advantage, bearing down like a mountain as Thrax struggle to stand. The gaping mouth opened, dripping saliva on Thrax's upturned face. Thrax kept digging the claw in the wrist until, hissing, Yambuku switched grips to keep all his fingers compressed. They freed their other hand from Thrax's grip. After a brief struggle Yambuku brought the chain into view and mashed it against Thrax's closed mouth.

"Open up, Thrax," Yambuku snarled. Their smile was obscene, almost mad. "Don't you want it?"

Then Jones fired.

The moment the bullet left his gun the Ebola virus roared, one knee pulverized. Thrax bulldozed to his feet while Yambuku careened to the side, reeling.

"Yeah, baby, I want it," Thrax said. He straightened his coat and cracked his neck. He took his time strolling after the lurching Ebola. "Pay attention, now. Class is in session."

Saliva dripped from their clenched mouth. Their leg was ruined. They lashed out but Thrax dodged easily. His next punch knocked Yambuku clean off their good leg and onto the ground. Before the virus could stand Thrax straddled their chest.

Yambuku's voice was more garble than words. "You think killing me makes you anything? You stupid nobod—"

Thrax caught both tips of the snout and pried the jaws wide. "The name's Thrax." Yambuku slashed and punched at anything they could reach, tail thumping the floor without pattern. "When y'all be saying my name, put some respect on it."

Thrax forced the jaws beyond their limit, stopping only when hearing a crack. Ebola's poached eyes rolled. The snakelike body went limp. Humming, Thrax took his glowing claw and began to saw the head in half, stopping only when the top portion rolled to the floor with a gristly splatter. Still straddling the body, Thrax leaned over to pick up the fallen DNA bead chain. He wiped it clean against his coat before wrapping it around his forearm and wrist. He clenched a fist around the loose end and closed his eyes.

They'd done it. Jones wanted to sit down, his legs feeling as if they'd been coagulated. Ebola was dead. Heidi was saved.

"Time to pony up, Jones."

Jones blinked. He found Thrax staring at him, yellow eyes blazing in the gloom. Against the backdrop of burning panels, slathered in Ebola's cytoplasm, he looked like a monster. Right back to where we started, Jones thought. The gun was heavy in his hand while he felt curiously light.

"I could've aimed at you, you know," Jones said. He didn't know why he mentioned that.

Thrax lifted himself from Ebola's corpse and began to move towards him, index claw hot. "That was a good shot, probably your best. But I warned you before, baby. Your nucleus is mine."

Jones backed up warily, raising his gun. At this range there was no way he could miss.

"You get in the way too often, Jones. I'm looking to change that." But by Thrax's third step Jones noticed something wasn't right. Thrax noticed too, wobbling slightly. He paused. When he took another step his right leg suddenly gave out and he pitched forward, snarling.

"What the—?" On his knees, Thrax pushed the coat aside and found a steady stream of cytoplasm leaking from several small, deep wounds. Thrax tried to stand but listed again, right leg not working. He clamped an arm to his side, cursing.

"Looks like you've had all you can handle," Jones said. He lowered the gun.

Thrax tried to stand for a third time but fell again to all fours, snarling, livid. But there was an undercurrent of fear, too. He stayed on his knees, pant leg becoming soaked.

"Help me, damn you."

"Damn me?" Jones choked on laughter though nothing was funny. Thrax's bleeding side transfixed him. "You've already done that."

Jones crouched and rested on his heels a safe distance away. He realized he'd never seen anything die in front of him before. Besides Frank, of course, but never up close like this. He detected the dark smell of Thrax's cytoplasm. It was both intoxicating and nauseating.

At first Thrax looked around like an animal watching for escape routes, mouth pressed into a line. Then he grew quiet, glaring the same quiet hate at Jones as he had in the jail hold. His cytoplasm was spreading, mixing with the fluid already on the floor.

As Jones watched Thrax slowly bleed out, he realized all he wanted to do was fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. Maybe he, too, was wounded somewhere. Or maybe he'd been bleeding out the whole time, losing more and more of himself without noticing.

"Never met a cop as troublesome as you."

It took Jones a moment to recognize Thrax had spoken. The ex-cop locked eyes with Frank's murderer. Thrax spat on the ground.

Just as Jones thought he was watching Thrax's last moments, the red virus suddenly took his glowing claw and pressed it against the wounds. There was a wet hiss and a sharp stench of burning. Thrax growled deep in his chest, face contorting. When he took the claw away, the bleeding was reduced to a sluggish drip.

Cat's got nine lives, Jones thought. He didn't know if it was despair or relief he felt. Maybe both. He was still processing his emotions when he slowly became aware of a distant wail of sirens. Sirens. Jones felt himself grin. Thank Frank. Ebola was dead, the weird thrall with it. Heidi had her fighting chance to pull through.

Jones glanced down at the red virus still kneeling on the ground. Best to finish this. He raised his gun for a second time. "See ya, Thrax."

Thrax lifted his chin, teeth bared. "Don't miss."

Jones fired. The shot went wide. It sounded like a firecracker going off in a tin can, kicking up a small explosion before burping smoke. Thrax slowly looked at Jones, eyebrows high.

"I'm done," Jones said. He holstered the gun. "Done with you, done with this. Maybe you'll get your chapter, maybe not. I'll let someone else smoke you. But if you survive and decide to find me, I'm gonna put two in your head. Understand?"

Thrax was quiet, eyes pale as he regarded Jones with a cool intensity.

Without another look back Jones left the lab. He stepped onto the sidewalk just as the first fire trucks were pulling up. He hurried off, hands in pockets, but no one called out or stopped him. Moving on, huh? He kept walking, warming to the idea. He was half a block away when an ambulance whirled by, away from the adrenals.

Jones found he was okay with that too.

.

.

.

-fin-