by Tracey Ward
“Sorry,” he mutters, looking chastised as he zips the door closed.
I see Alissa smiling at Leah from across my body. “You’re a bit of a pit-bull.”
Leah smirks, filling a syringe. “And don’t you forget it.”
***
Leah is right. Morphine or no, that hurt like hell. I know she was gentle but I still cursed through clenched teeth, calling her every name in the book as she cleaned my hand. For the most part, she ignored me but occasionally, during particularly violent rants, she would chuckle softly.
Alissa spent the entire time with her back to me, her eyes always on the old man laid out on the floor. He never spoke a word. Never protested to anything, never asked to stand up. As far as I know he never moved. Maybe he took a nap. Alissa’s gun was forever pointed at the floor not far from him but she moved it to her left hand, something I took as a sign that she wasn’t really concerned with him anymore. With her right hand free, she took up my mine. I crushed her bones to dust but she never complained. And she never left my side.
Now Leah is injecting another dose of painkillers and a sedative into my arm, hoping to knock me out for a while. She says I’ve deserved the rest and I’m not going to argue with her.
“What happens now?” Alissa asks. She sounds exhausted. I wonder what time it is. Maybe it’s morning.
“Now he sleeps. I’ve given him some pretty strong antibiotics but we’ll need to watch that arm closely for infection. He may not have the Fever but that doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods yet. We’ll have to watch and wait.”
“For how long?”
“Days.”
My eyes are starting to droop. I have to fight to keep them open.
“We’re lucky if we have minutes.”
I hear the snap of Leah’s gloves coming off. “You’re worried about him.”
The way she says ‘him’ with such disdain leaves no doubt she’s not talking about me.
“Yeah. You would let us stay, I think, but him… No way.”
“Well, it’s not up to him. Or me.”
“Who is it up to then?”
“Jordan.”
My eyes have closed. Their voices are getting farther and farther away, as is my understanding of the conversation.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, his reaction to the antibiotics will be the decider. If he runs a fever of any kind when Doctor Finemen comes in, it’s over. You could pull that gun on him but that’ll be the end of your chances of staying here.”
“Aren’t those chances dead now?”
“The way I saw it, this man made an inappropriate comment toward you. Very offensive, incredibly graphic. Like watching Showtime. You punched him in the face, he refused to assist your friend, so I proceed alone.”
“What about the gun?”
“What gun?”
There’s a pause that goes on for hours. I think I’m asleep but then I hear them speaking far off in the distance.
“Leah?”
“Yes, hon?”
“I think I love you.”
“I get that a lot.”
Chapter Seventeen
I wake up alone but not where I fell asleep. It’s off-putting. As is the fact that I’m not wearing my clothes either. In fact, I’m wearing nothing but a sheet. So that’s weird.
“Hello?” I croak.
No answer.
I look around the darkened room trying to piece together where I am. I’m in a real building. One with bland gray walls and a hideously outdated popcorn ceiling. I roll my head to the side, noting the crown molding and vowing that, given the chance, I’m never to watch HGTV again. Even in the background, as it apparently seeps into your brain and takes root like a tree growing into your foundation. Dammit! No more.
“TV rots your brain,” I mumble to myself.
“What’s that?” a man calls from another room.
I freeze, surprised to find myself not alone. I’m also a little terrified. Alissa and Leah are nowhere around, I have no idea where I am or who is coming and, worst of all, I don’t know if I’m running a fever. I go to raise my hand to rest the back of it against my forehead, but a searing pain runs through it straight into my brain.
“Ahhhh!” I cry out, closing my eyes against the sudden anguish.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the male voice tells me. He’s in the room. I can feel him come to stand beside my bed, his hand resting on the top of my head. “Breathe. Slow and easy. Breathe.”
I latch onto his voice, using the gentle tone of it to bring me down. To give me something else to think about besides the fire in my right hand. It’s like waking up in the RV all over again. Like living out the worst moment of my life on repeat again and again and again. I want to scream for this guy to hack the hand off, to remove the pain, but then I remember. It’s already gone.
Some of the pain recedes instantly. A little of the fire coils within itself and snuffs out, leaving a trail of black smoke curling into the air. I watch it against the backs of my eyelids as I breathe slow and even, puffing my breaths out gently. And just like that I can stand to be alive again. It still hurts, I still want to grab every drug I can find and down it in the hopes that it will bring a half-second of relief, but I don’t feel like I’ll die from it.
“That’s it. Nice and easy. Good. Well done, Jordan.”
I open my eyes to find Santa Clause staring down at me. Perfect white beard, round spectacles, kind eyes. Only he’s too tall and thin. He’s about four inches and forty cases of Thin Mints away from being the true Fat Man.
“You’re Dr. Finemen,” I whisper.
He grins. “Yes. I take it Nurse Evans told you about me.”
“I kind of heard your name thrown around. But she was sure she wanted you to see me before they killed me.”
“Well,” he says casually, pulling up a chair, “she was right about that. Can you tell me what happened to you, Jordan?”
I feel my pulse begin to race. “She and Alissa didn’t tell you?”
“No, they did. Syd as well. I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Where are Alissa and Syd?”
“Quarantine. Just like you. They’re in rooms down the hall from here sleeping. You all had a long night, I understand.”
“Yeah,” I say faintly.
“So,” he insists quietly, “tell me what happened.”
I try to clear my throat but it turns into a coughing fit. Dr. Finemen produces a glass of water from out of nowhere which I sip slowly and gratefully. After a few deep breathes I lay my head back down hard, staring up at the ceiling.
“I, um. I was going into the trees to… use the…”
“You were relieving yourself.”
“Yes. Yeah.”
“And you were attacked?”
“Yeah,” I say again, my eyes closing. “I heard a noise from behind me. I turned to try and fight but I wasn’t fast enough. It got me.”
“The Fever victim.”
I nod silently.
“So you fought with him. Then what?”
I lick my lips, stalling for time. Time to get away from this. To shut down the memory. To not relive it.
“Jordan,” Dr. Finemen says firmly, insistently. “What happened next?”
“He bit me.” My heart is in my throat but I swallow past it. “He bit my right hand and I knew… I knew I was dead. I didn’t really think. I reacted. I knew that whatever he’d bitten was worthless. It was poison and if I wanted to—to live, then I needed to do something about it.”
“What did you do?”
I open my eyes to glare at him. “You already know.”
“I want to hear it from you,” he replies calmly.
“Well I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You need to acknowledge it.”
“I do acknowledge it. I’ll acknowledge it for the rest of my life, every time I use that hand I’ll know.”
“What will you know?”
I shake my he
ad, looking back at the ceiling. I feel a tear slip hot and quick down the side of my face.
“I’ll know—“
“What, Jordan?”
“I’ll know it’s gone,” I whisper.
I hate him. I hate the zombies. I hate myself. I’m pretty sure I hate Syd, too, but who wouldn’t?
“Good,” Dr. Finemen says softly. “Good for you.”
I give an empty laugh. “I was just thinking that I hate you.”
“That’s alright. We’ll build off that.”
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
I turn to him. “This? The ‘say it’, ‘acknowledge it’ routine. What was that about? I know it’s gone.”
“I see that now. But I’ll tell you something, Jordan. Something that may or may not help you in the long run but it really can’t hurt to know. People who lose a limb, often times they have a lot of trouble accepting it. They experience phantom pains where the limb used to be. Pains that can’t be dulled or cured even with heavy medication. I want to help you avoid that torture.”
“You wanted me to admit that it’s gone so I don’t pretend it’s still there?”
“Yes. The sooner you accept that your hand is gone, the better off you’ll be. Mourn it, of course, because it is a great loss. But don’t be consumed by that loss. Remember what you’ve gained.”
I frown. “What could I possibly have gained from this?”
“Life,” he replies as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. “You were bitten. If you’d kept that hand, you’d be dead right now. Or undead, apparently. I’m still getting used to the terminology. Either way, you’re alive.”
“How long is that going to last?”
Now he frowns. I’ve made Santa sad. “What are you referring to?”
“Am I running a fever from the infection in my ha—“ I stop short of referring to an appendage that’s no longer there. “In my arm?”
His face clears as he waves away my concerns. “No, no. You’re perfectly safe. Nurse Evans informed me of the situation. All of it, including Dr. Westbrook. Horrible things he said to your friend Alissa, weren’t they?” he asks with a wink.
I manage a grin. “Disturbing. But isn’t he going to be angry about all of it? Won’t he tell people I’m a risk?”
“Probably, but luckily everyone hates him. Who would listen?”
“Why does everyone hate him?”
“Did you meet him?” Dr. Finemen asks with raised eyebrows. “He’s a prick.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Anyway,” he continues merrily, “he’s lucky all he got was a black eye and bruised ego. The good news for you is that you’re a bit of a celebrity already. Word travels fast around here and everyone is dying to meet the man who survived a zombie bite.”
“Aren’t they worried I could still turn?”
Dr. Finemen shrugs carelessly. “A lot of them, yes. Might want to watch your back but we all do that nowadays anyway.”
“Are you worried I’ll turn?”
“I can’t know for sure, of course, because your situation is unique. But if I had to put money on it, and I’m a gambling man at heart, I would bet on you dying of old age in your bed someday. Not from The Fever.”
I grin at him, feeling grateful for his levity. “Are you an optimist? Is that how you see us all dying?”
“Oh, God no. I’ll die in bed, sure,” he says with a smile, “but it won’t be mine.”
***
A few hours later (or a few years, I don’t know) Alissa comes to sit beside me.
“What happened to your hair?” I mumble, trying to wake up.
She laughs as she runs her hands through it. “It’s clean. There are bathrooms here and, get this…” She leans in close to whisper in my ear. “They work.”
I stare at her in shock. “Running water and everything?”
“Can you imagine?”
“You in a shower?” I close my eyes. “I’m working on it.”
“Perve.”
“Shhh. I’m dreaming. Ow!” I cry, slapping her hand away from my stomach. “Did you pinch me?”
“Stick with the real me, Jordan. It’s better.”
“Full 3-D and surround sound better?”
“I don’t even know how to answer that.”
“Just say ‘yes’.”
“Yes.”
“Now say it low and husky.”
“Like James Earl Jones?”
I scowl at her. “What? No. Like Marilyn Mon— never mind, you killed it.”
“Oops.” she says, sounding not even a little sorry. “But, hey, apart from working showers, do you notice what else they have that the outside world didn’t have?”
“Power?”
“Yes, but no.”
“Medicine?”
“Yeah, no.”
“X-box?”
“You’re hopeless. Who are we missing right now?”
“No one.”
“Exactly. I don’t miss him either.”
It’s then that I realize Syd is gone. Dr. Finemen too. And no Nurse Evans. Alissa and I, as far as I know, are completely alone.
“Wow,” I whisper reverently.
“Right?”
I glance around the empty, silent room. “This is weird.”
“I know. It’s been forever.”
“Yeah, we haven’t really been alone since… Wait,” I say, casting her a suspicious glare. “Did you drug people again?”
“No!” she cries indignantly. “This is how it is here. This, the alone thing, happens on the regular.”
“Weird,” I repeat.
“Can I tell you what I’d like to do with this time?”
I smile at her. “Is it dirty? I really don’t think I’m recovered enough for dirty.”
“No.”
“I can probably handle soiled. Maybe just untidy.”
“Jordan.” The way she says it is like a warning. The way Syd always says ‘Al’ when she’s pushing his buttons. Her resemblance to her father kills my libido and good humor.
“Alright, what’s up?”
She looks away, her eyes intentionally skipping over my missing hand. It stings, making me self-conscious about my destroyed arm. I start to move it around, trying to find a place to hide it. I want to move it under the blanket but without fingers I can’t lift the material up to slide my arm under. I’m struggling, getting frustrated and angry when I feel her cool fingers come to rest on my forearm. She inches toward the bandage at the end. Toward the missing piece of me.
We both watch her hand carefully as it slides down my arm. Her fingertips are feather light, barely touching the skin, but I can feel it. I’m very, very aware of it and it burns like fire everywhere she touches me. I jerk my arm away. The movement hurts but not like it did before when Dr. Finemen helped me. I don’t feel the massive ball of fire clenched in my palm. I’m looking at it and I know the hand it’s there. I’m willing myself not to feel the ache that can’t exist. It’s still there, my brain evidently does whatever the hell it wants on some level, but it’s not nearly as bad this time.
“I’m sorry,” Alissa mutters. She’s still looking down, her fingers hovering over where my arm used to lie. “I wanted you to know I’m not afraid of it. Of where you were bitten. I’m not shying away from what happened.”
“Yeah, well,” I grumble, “I don’t exactly want attention drawn to it either.”
“What do you want?”
My hand back, I think uselessly.
I reach out my hand to her, my real hand, and pull her around the small bed I’m lying in. She doesn’t hesitate to curl up beside me, wrapping herself around me the way she in the boat. But I’m already thinking of another time I laid beside her.
“I want you to tell me a story.”
I feel her chuckle against me, her breath bursting warm from her mouth across my bare skin. It gives me goose bumps.
“There once was a man from Nantucket
. He had a—“
“My God, you’re a brat,” I groan. “Even now.”
“You were hoping I’d change?”
I turn until the top of her head is pressing against my face, the clean scent of soap, flowers and Alissa wafting into my nose. I press my dry, cracked lips to her soft hair.
“Tell me a story,” I whisper.
“I don’t remember it exactly.”
“You remember enough.”
I feel her sigh. I feel her body settle in against mine, fitting perfectly into the dips and curves. Into the empty places, filling them with her skin, her bones, her breaths. Her body weighs down on me heavily, pressing against me so closely nothing else can get near. She’s holding me fast so I can’t float away and forget where I am. What I want. What I need.
“We’ll go out to the desert,” she begins softly, “and we’ll bring the hammock. The sky will be pure velvet blackness above us.”
“Strewn with so many stars we’d never be able to count them in a million lifetimes.”
She lightly pinches my stomach again. “Who’s telling this story?”
“We are,” I whisper sleepily.
When she starts speaking again, we’re almost there. We’re so close. It’s nearly perfect, nearly what it was supposed to be, but not quite. It’s a little more jagged. A little rough around the edges and a lot of what we had was lost along the way. But I’m thinking we should let it go because whether or not we needed it then, we don’t need it now. Right now, this is it. Her and I and the vast desert sky burning with stars spanning across the closest thing to eternity that we’ll ever know.
“We’ll sleep dreamlessly through the night and wake up in the morning to cold air and the yellow, pink glow of the sun rising…”
Chapter Eighteen
I’m transferred from the house, which is apparently Dr. Finemen’s personal home, to the hospital. Finemen kept me close for observation because he was curious, concerned and also because he was pretty sure if he left me in the tent for anyone to see I’d be shot within an hour. I ran a pretty high fever for a couple of days as he and Leah tried a variety of antibiotics on me and worked to keep my wound clean and dry. It wasn’t an easy task. It was ugly, smelly and painful but most of all it was terrifying. They prepared me for the fact that I might lose the arm entirely. At least up to the elbow. Combine a tourniquet, dirty skillet cauterization and my dirt floor hatchet job and you’ve got a breeding ground for infection.