by Karen Kincy
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Human.”
My heart still thumps hard, my skin sweaty like I’ve run a mile. What’s the phase of the moon tonight? I haven’t been keeping track, as if not knowing about the full moon will give me some sort of placebo effect.
But still … “It’s the middle of the fucking day. You’re good. Let’s do this.”
A toilet flushes, and a guy comes out from one of the stalls. Red-faced, he adjusts his tie and leaves without even washing his hands.
Whatever. He can deal.
I take the elevator up to the fourth floor and linger outside Chris’s room. The door opens and a nurse walks out, frowning over something on a clipboard. I don’t even want to ask. Chris lifts his head from his pillow and waves.
“Hey,” I say, and I can’t stay outside any longer. “They been feeding you?”
I wonder if he feels the same gnawing hunger that I do.
“Kind of,” Chris croaks.
He looks skinny as hell, bandages mummifying his neck, wrist, and shoulder. I wince, remembering how the silver werewolf gnawed on him like a chew toy. It’s been one month to the day since it happened, but he’s been too sick to heal. Yeah, he’d heal if he weren’t taking megadoses of Lycanthrox … and he’d also be a werewolf, if the transformation didn’t kill him first. When the full moon last came around, it tore him up inside. He’s not strong enough to fight the virus, but he’s not strong enough to change.
The doctors say my body is handling the infection better, which must mean I’m already more of a beast than my brother. Lycanthrox is supposed to keep the virus from spreading—but it can’t kill it. Just keeps the wolf at bay.
Like I said, I don’t know why Dad thinks there’s a cure.
Chris blinks and swallows hard. “Brock?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you here?”
“To visit you.” I twist my mouth into a smile. “You’re my brother, remember?”
He frowns, not getting the joke. “Yeah.”
Chris has been feverish forever. Nothing the doctors have given him has helped so far, and sometimes his temperature skyrockets.
“How you been?” I ask.
“Tired.”
“Dad couldn’t make it,” I say, even though he didn’t ask. “Too busy.”
“Oh. How’s … ” Chris pauses and squints. “Cynthia?”
“We broke up,” I say flatly. “A while ago.”
Of course, I already told him this. Three times now. He’s been having problems remembering what month it is, even what year.
“Shit, man. She was a really great girl.”
My throat hurts. “I know.”
Chris licks his chapped lips, frowns. “Brock. We should have never done that.”
“Done what?” I say, but I know what he means.
“Don’t ever do that again, you hear me? Don’t ever.”
It’s too late, I want to say. There’s no reset button on life. Instead I just stand there, deaf and dumb, trying to be some kind of comforting.
“That guy … Ben … ” Chris coughs. “He was no good.”
It hurts to watch him try and talk. His chest heaves as he forces out the words.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds raw, and I clear my throat. “He’s in jail now.”
“Those gicks … they really fucked us over.”
“Chris,” I say, “don’t worry. Don’t—”
His eyes roll back, baring white, before his eyelids flutter shut. He convulses, fists clenched, back arched. The hinges of the bed rattle.
“Hey!” I shout. “Somebody get the hell in here!”
A nurse runs to the doorway, then shouts for someone to get a doctor. She tries to jab a syringe into Chris’s arm, but he’s thrashing too hard.
“Help me hold him down!”
I obey the nurse and pin Chris’s shoulders to the mattress. He’s so weak compared to me. His skin feels scalding hot beneath my hands. The nurse successfully empties the syringe into the vein on the inside of his elbow, and after thirty seconds of eternity, the earthquake within Chris dies down, leaving him limp and sweaty.
“Chris?” I say. “Chris, are you okay?”
“He’s unconscious,” says the nurse. “But he should recover.”
The doctor strides through the door, all white-coated importance, and starts rattling off medical terms that make no sense to me.
I breathe deep and try not to shout. “Excuse me! What just happened to Chris?”
The doctor stares at me. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to leave.”
“He’s my brother, for Christ’s sake. Tell me what happened.”
“Your brother has a history of febrile seizures,” the doctor says, her face bland and emotionless, “which may explain this one.”
“Why isn’t he getting better? Why did I get better, but not Chris?”
“Many factors. You may have a genetic predisposition that allowed you to survive, or his immune system may have been weakened.”
I growl under my breath. Enough with the hand waving and medical gibberish.
“You have to go,” the doctor says. “Now.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“Yes.”
That’s all I need to hear. I don’t want to keep hanging around. If I stay too long, I might see something horrible. Fists clenched, I stride out of the room and start trying to breathe again. That scared the shit out of me.
Dad’s wasting money on these special paranormal-expert doctors. They don’t know jack shit about taking care of Others. If all their fancy medical diplomas really mean anything more than the tissue-paper gowns here, why is Chris getting worse? He hates being in a Seattle hospital. He should be home right now.
I shake my head, hard.
The stink of the hospital is starting to mess with my head. Too much sickness. I’ve got to get out of here. As the doors to the elevator slide shut, I stare at myself in the polished stainless walls, then punch my reflection and dent the steel.
Damn it. I forget how strong I am now. But why do I feel so useless?
When I get home, I take an icy shower until my skin feels numb, though nothing can numb the ache inside me. I do finally get the hospital stink off of me, thank God. Afterward, I sit at my computer with the window open, letting the cold evening wind take over my bedroom. I wait for the hideously slow Internet to load my email.
Huh. An email from Josh. Maybe running into me yesterday guilt-tripped him into writing.
hey brock
just wanted to let u know that im going to a bonfire party tonight. its behind bobs corn maze on the other side of the trees. there will be drinks and girls. hope to see u there.
peace
josh
A bonfire party? Tonight? I can’t believe Josh actually wants me to come along.
Outside the window, the moon hides her silver face behind a scarf of clouds. How full is she now? The wind scrapes the sky clean, and I squint at the pallid moon. About three-quarters full, and growing. An electric shiver skitters down my spine, and I curl my toes into the carpet. Time for another hit of Lycanthrox. After I swallow the magic pill, I tell myself that I feel calmer. That there won’t be a problem tonight.
I almost believe myself.
four
I don’t even have to creep downstairs. Dad snores like a bulldozer on the couch, the laugh track on the TV too loud. He won’t check my room to see if I’m gone. I know. I’ve snuck out before, and done far worse things.
I bypass the truck and wheel my bike out from behind the garage. My legs itch with unspent energy. I pedal hard, until my muscles burn and the whistling wind stings my eyes. Down in the valley, fog overflows from the river and spills over the sleeping fields. The thick wet air tickles my throat, scented with rive
r mud, wet grass, ripening corn, and the roast beef of a recent dinner trickling from a window.
My stomach growls. I yank an energy bar from my pocket and stuff it, whole, into my mouth. There. Shut up. You’re not hungry anymore.
Bob’s Corn Maze stands beside a backwater pond in the poplars. The spicy honey smell of the trees mingles with woodsmoke. The fog, thinner here, glows in the flickering yellow of a nearby bonfire. I ditch my bike in the bushes and trot down the muddy side road. Hoots of laughter and shouts rise from the area of the bonfire.
When I come to a circle of people, I stop. A knot tightens in my gut.
“Hey, Brock!” Josh scrambles to his feet, a bottle in his hand. Drunk already?
“Hey,” I grunt, like a caveman.
“Have a seat and some beer,” Josh says. “Ed got some from his dad, so it’s good stuff.”
“Thanks.”
I pace around the people circling the bonfire, then sit next to strangers. Those who know me vaguely glance at me, curiosity sharpening their eyes. If Josh told them anything, I’m going to cut off his balls.
“Are you sure?” says a familiar voice, approaching the bonfire.
“I’m sure,” says another.
A sigh. “This better be worth it.”
Cyn. Through the swirling flames, she walks toward me, every step making my heart beat faster. She’s wearing a red hoodie, but she crosses her arms tight against the cold. I wish I could hold her close and rub her hands warm.
Where’s this boyfriend of hers? Or is she hunting for a new one?
Josh cuts through the circle of people. “Want a drink?” His voice cracks, jittery. He presses a cold beer into my hand, and I take it from him.
My eyes on Cyn, I down the beer in one swig. I’m not supposed to be drinking. Alcohol and Lycanthrox don’t mix, the doctors say. But the doctors say a lot of bull.
Some new guy follows on the heels of Cyn and her friends. He hefts a plastic Safeway bag high into the air, and a few guys at the bonfire cheer. “Sausage!” bellows one of them, and others join him in a sort of fake manly battle cry.
My nose twitches. Yes. Sausage.
I keep my eyes on Cyn while I hear them ripping open plastic and sliding meat into the air and dangling it in flames so that it sizzles—dammit, hungry again? I lumber over to the guy with the package of sausages.
“Hey,” I grunt. “Can I get one of those?”
Shadowed by me, he looks up, his eyes wide. “Sure, man, no problem.”
That was quick. Did I intimidate him? He holds out the sausages to me, and I grab two. As I walk back to my spot, I can’t help but gulp one down raw. It tastes good. People are staring, so I stab the other sausage onto a twig and hold it over the fire. Delicious. As I eat the sausage, smoke drifts my way, carrying Cyn’s voice with it.
“ … but is there really just one drink? I mean, beer has a pretty low alcohol content. What is it, five percent? Yeah, it says four point five percent on these. But anyway, I’m female and small, both factors that make me more likely to get drunk faster. You have to take genetics into account, too, and I’m not even going to go there.”
Sometimes Cyn can be too smart for her own good. I mean, I know she’s one of the geniuses at school, all prepped for a full scholarship at college, but seriously. You have to know when to turn your brain off and just have fun.
“Whatever,” her friend groans. “Enough with the lecture.”
“I’m just saying,” Cyn says. “It’s better to calculate before you inebriate.” She laughs. “Think before you drink.”
I’ve heard enough. I climb to my feet, snag a beer, and head over to Cyn.
“Hey,” I say, and wince. Aren’t I great at the cave-man-grunt introductions?
“Oh. Hi.” Cyn looks disoriented, snapped out of her thoughts. “Brock?”
“What?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was going to ask you that.” I try to smile, and fail.
Cyn just arches her eyebrows and takes a beer from her friend. She pops the top and sips slowly, staring at me over the top of the can. Any other guy would think she was coming on to him, but I recognize the challenging glint in her eyes. She’s wearing heavy mascara, which is unusual for her. What girls would call war paint.
I drink from my beer. “This stuff’s not too bad.”
“I’ve had better.” She studies me. “So I suppose we could awkwardly ignore each other, or we could awkwardly try to talk.”
I feel a little leap of hope. “Do you want to talk?”
“Everybody’s a little curious about their exes.”
Cyn beckons me nearer with a wave of her beer. I hear it sloshing in the bottom, nearly empty. Her eyes look glossy. Firelight and shadows flicker over her face, confusing her expression—I can’t tell if she’s excited or afraid.
“How do you feel?” she murmurs.
I frown. “Fine.”
“No, how do you feel?”
Is she asking if I’ve changed? If the wolf inside me is awake?
I lower myself into a crouch until I’m eye level with her. I steady myself with my fingers splayed, my nails biting into the earth. She draws back, her lips still wet with beer. I can hear her breathing. And her heart, beating hard.
“Cyn,” I say quietly. “I’m still Brock.”
“I’m done with the old Brock.” She sounds sober now. Or maybe she’s talking really carefully because she knows she’s getting drunk. “But I don’t know the new Brock. Maybe I never knew you, even before you got bitten.”
My face heats. “Don’t say that here. Please?”
“But I want to talk.”
“Not about that. Not now.”
“Fine.” Cyn drains her beer. “Have fun without me.”
I nod and walk away before I can say something I’ll regret. Cyn pops another beer while her friend complains about calories. The guys, on the other hand, chug beer and crush the empty cans barehanded. A little bit of conversation makes the rounds, but I don’t have much to say, so I eat and drink and watch Cyn.
Above us, the moon sails out from a cloud sea. My skin itches, but my body holds steady.
For now, at least.
Cyn whispers something in her friend’s ear, who nods. They climb to their feet, soon followed by a few other girls. They link arms and meander into the cornfield, going backward through the maze. I watch their long legs and shining hair disappear into the darkness. Where are they going? To gossip about us? About me?
“I’ve got to take a leak,” I say to no one in particular.
I climb to my feet and make myself walk past the entrance and exit of the corn maze. I turn the corner of the field and stop by the ditch. The moon’s reflection wavers in the murky water, and I piss on her face. Then I hear voices, coming from inside the corn maze. I finish and zip up my fly. The voices grow fainter. I jog alongside the corn maze, my ears pricked, my nostrils flared as if I might sniff them out.
“ … that guy is sort of creepy,” says a girl, not Cyn. “Don’t you think?”
My stomach sours. I’m not sure I want to hear this.
“Yeah, he seems like he should be in middle school, not high school. Even though he is kind of tall, he acts totally immature.”
“Yeah. And those pimples … yuck.”
Oh. They must be talking about Josh. I hope.
“Guys,” Cyn sighs. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything.”
Their voices fade again. They must be moving deeper into the maze.
“Hey, whatever happened to that Koeman guy?”
“You mean my ex?” Cyn says.
“Yeah.”
Wind hisses through the corn, rattling stalks and shaking leaves. Shit. I can’t hea
r. I shove through the corn and sidestep into the maze, trying—and failing—not to leave a swath of destruction behind me. I stumble onto a muddy path that branches into three more. Okay. I know that Bob made the maze in the shape of a tractor this year. I’ve already been through it once, so that should give me an edge.
I inhale through my nose. The mingling perfumes of different girls float my way on the breeze. I’m not very good at picking out individual people’s smells yet, but there’s no way I could miss Cyn’s bittersweet scent.
I trot down the leftmost path. The wind dies down, and I hear them again.
“Yeah,” says a girl. “I heard that, too. Do you think it’s just rumors?”
“Who knows.” Cyn’s voice sounds oddly flat.
“But you guys were dating for what, a year?”
“Which is why I went to Mexico. I wanted to get away.”
“What, so tonight’s the first time you saw him again?”
Cyn pauses. “No.”
“Oh, don’t tell me he’s been stalking you!” The girl sounds thrilled by the idea. “Is he trying to, you know, bite you?”
I can’t hear Cyn’s reply.
My heart drums in my ears. Sweat beads on my skin, even in the chilly night air. The girls walk away again, and I run after them, not about to let them get away from me again. My footsteps pound the dirt.
“Who’s that?” Cyn says, her voice clear.
“Somebody’s following us.” A girl giggles. “Probably one of the boys.”
“Let’s hide!” another girl says, like it’s a game.
Laughing, they take flight, their voices darting away. I burst into a crossroads and glance around. No sight of them. I charge after the voices. Ahead, right before a turn, I see Cyn slowing, glancing back. I almost say her name.
Our eyes meet. And then she runs away.
I’m faster than her, I know it. I’m going to catch up with her and that look in her eye. Then she’s going to tell me what it meant.
My legs swing and arms pump as I race down the path. I take the corner fast, but Cyn’s already gone. There’s a long stretch of curving path ahead. I pick up speed as the clouds bare the moon’s face above me. A prickling, electric excitement builds inside my gut. My legs feel liquid. I stumble, then stop, breathing hard.