Chapter 15 Transfusion Of Truth

• The sterile interrogation trailer hummed with the drone of generators and the frantic energy of impending catastrophe. Dr. Thorne had vanished back into the biohazard maelstrom outside. Agent Vance remained, a statue of tense pragmatism, her phone pressed to her ear, voice low and urgent as she negotiated my demands with unseen authorities higher up the chain. Immunity. Field hospital. Resources for the camp.
• Alexander Sterling sat slumped in the chair opposite me, uncuffed but diminished. The mud on his coat had dried into a grotesque map of his downfall. His face, stripped of its usual arrogance, was pale and clammy, etched with lines of pain and a dawning, terrifying comprehension. He wasn’t looking at Vance. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on me, wide with a raw, animal fear that transcended the FBI, the Prometheus, even Vivian’s betrayal. It was the primal terror of a body sensing its own imminent collapse.
• "Evelyn," he rasped, his voice a dry whisper, cracking on the second syllable. His hand trembled visibly on the cold metal table. Not a nervous tremor. A deep, internal vibration, a neurological shudder. "The... the shaking. It started in the van." He swallowed convulsively. "My vision... it's like looking through fogged glass. Spots. Flashing lights." He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, blinking rapidly, his pupils dilated unevenly. "Is this... is this how it starts? Like Maya?"