Bring On the Night

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  I stopped for a moment to listen, even though it was drizzling.

  This season’s swine flu outbreak had turned Shane into an overprotective monster. For weeks, if I went anywhere other than the radio station he’d equip me with a packet of alcohol wipes and a surgical mask. He did all the grocery shopping and dog walking, to minimize my contact with the public.

  I hadn’t worried then, despite the fatalities. But this was different. Aaron wasn’t a statistic or a name in the newspaper. He was my friend, and he had collapsed into a shaking, sweating, scratching disaster.

  I opened the front door. Dexter trotted over, wagging his long skinny tail. Shane looked up at me from the sofa and silenced his electric guitar, the pure white Gibson SG I’d given him three Christmases ago.

  “You’re early. Not that I’m complaining.” He crossed the room to turn off the amp. “News on the Jim situation. He totally wigged when we asked him about Susan, but he claims to have an alibi. Regina’s checking it out.”

  I dropped my book bag on the floor with a thud. The sound made him turn to face me.

  “Jesus, what’s wrong?” he said. “You look pale.”

  “Aaron’s really sick.” I sat on the edge of the sofa cushion, focusing on not falling over, and gave him a thirty-second replay of the events in class. “Franklin’s going to call from the hospital when he knows something.”

  “I hope he’s okay.” Shane sat beside me and unplugged the cord from his guitar. “I’ve heard chicken pox can be really serious for adults.”

  I stroked Dexter’s head when he shoved it against my chest. “I’ve never had it.”

  Shane froze for half a beat. “What about the shots?”

  “It’s a two-dose vaccine. I had an allergic reaction to the first shot, so I couldn’t get the second one.” I sat back on the sofa to rest against the throw pillow. “They said it would give me partial immunity, but there was no guarantee. What if this is some kind of supervirus?” My hands were like ice, as if in rebellion against Aaron’s heat. “If it’s strong enough to give him every symptom at once, maybe it’s strong enough to get us all. Not you, of course.”

  “And not you either. Don’t even think it.” He kissed my forehead. “Let me get you some tea to calm you down. Or would you rather have wine?”

  I swallowed, and discovered my throat was dry and a little scratchy. Oh God, I was sick already. Or maybe it was just spring allergies.

  “Tea, with lemon.”

  Shane crossed into the kitchen. I watched him over the breakfast bar as he filled the teakettle with steady hands. I wasn’t sure whether his calm demeanor soothed or frightened me.

  “Must be nice,” I said, “never worrying about getting sick.”

  “True, we can’t catch diseases.” He pulled a pair of mugs out of the cupboard. “But we worry about starvation, about our safe supplies drying up. In a way, we’re always teetering on the edge of illness.”

  He had a point. Vampires treasured their relationships with their donors, who were all that stood between them and annihilation. Without them, they’d have to drink nutritionally deficient bank blood. Or worse, they’d have to hunt, which usually led to a permanent death, courtesy of the Control.

  Tea must have eventually made its way into my hand and down my throat, because next thing I knew the mug was empty. I watched the clock on the wall pass an hour, then another. To keep me sane, Shane even let me put on Coldplay, my musical Valium.

  When the phone finally sang Franklin’s assigned ring-tone (Denis Leary’s “I’m an Asshole”), I grabbed it so hard, I yanked the charger out of the wall.

  “How’s Aaron?”

  “He came in on the ambulance.” Franklin’s voice sounded hollow. “They took him to the back and made me sit in the waiting room.”

  “Why? I thought domestic partners had visitation rights.”

  “That’s not it. I had to wait because—he was in respiratory arrest.”

  I sat down hard. “Is he okay now?”

  “They got him breathing again and put him in ICU on a machine. Finally I got to see him. The nurse was really nice.”

  In the three years I’d known Franklin, he’d never called anyone “really nice” except as an insult.

  He continued. “He didn’t even recognize me at first, the fever had him so delirious.”

  “What does he have?”

  Shane put his hand on my shoulder, and I clutched it with my fingertips.

  Franklin paused before answering. “The blood test says chicken pox. But it’s such an odd pattern of symptoms, they’re running more tests and calling in an infectious diseases expert from University of Maryland.”

  “Is Aaron stable now?”

  “You could say that.” Franklin’s voice tightened. “He’s in a coma.”

  11

  Home of the Blues

  When Shane went to the station at 3 a.m. to make up his missed shift, Dexter and I went with him. Not wanting to be alone, I planned to camp out on the couch in the downstairs lounge until my workday started.

  Jeremy entered from the studio after turning the airwaves over to Shane. Unlike the vampires he had no stealth.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Sorry I woke you,” he whispered, hurrying past the sofa to the small refrigerator.

  “You didn’t. I’m too wired.” I untangled my legs from Dexter’s so I could sit up. “Any water in there?”

  “Yep.” He fetched the drinks and sat at the other end of the sofa, removing his glasses as he sank into the cushion. Dexter shifted to put his head in Jeremy’s lap. “Shane told me about Aaron. I can’t believe it. He was one of my favorite professors.”

  “Don’t say ‘was.’ He’s not dead yet. I mean, he’s not dead.”

  “Right, but his being my professor is still past tense.” He rubbed Dexter’s head in front of his ear, the spot that turned him into Liquid Dog. “You must be massively worried about yourself.”

  I took a long swig of water instead of replying.

  “Have you thought about what you’ll do if you get sick?” he asked me.

  “Call my doctor.” I propped my heels against the edge of the coffee table. “Maybe go to the hospital.”

  “What if they can’t save you?”

  I didn’t even glance at him. “Shane looked it up online. He said 99.917 percent of people who get chicken pox survive.”

  “But what if you’re in that 0.083 percent? Or what if this is a supervirulent strain?”

  I turned on him. “What if for once you weren’t so morbid?”

  “I just think you should be prepared.”

  “If I die, I die.”

  “You can deal with that?” He waved his tattooed hand in a circle, encompassing the station. “Now, when you’re so happy? You don’t believe in heaven, right, so what’ve you got to look forward to after this life?”

  I gave him a blank look, though I knew what he was getting at.

  “Have you talked to Shane about it?” he asked.

  “About dying?”

  He rolled his eyes. “About immortality. Duh.”

  “Ohhhh.” I put a finger to my chin as if it had never occurred to me. “Then we could be like he and Regina used to be. Toxic, incestuous, and doomed.” I scratched Dexter’s lower back, brushing away bits of dead gray winter undercoat. “Besides, Shane would never do it. It’s against his religion.”

  “Right—he thinks vampires are damned. So quaint.”

  “He doesn’t think vampires are damned. He thinks suicides are damned.” I tempered the vehemence in my tone, surprised at how much Jeremy’s assumption bugged me. “So if you get vamped against your will, it’s not your fault. But if you ask for it—like you keep doing and like what you’re saying I should do—that’s killing yourself. Which is the ultimate Catholic sin.”

  “That’s heartless. The last thing a depressed person needs is to be told they’d go to hell for ending their pain.”

  “I don’t agree with their
belief, but I understand the idea. Suicide is dissing God in the biggest way, saying you don’t believe he can save you or that he even cares.”

  Jeremy stroked Dexter’s ears. “It’s hard to see God through the veil of despair.”

  “Believe me,” I said softly, “Shane knows that better than anyone.”

  The door to the hallway opened, and Shane appeared. “More good news. Ninety percent of varicella virus sufferers who receive intensive care survive.”

  Varicella, I thought. Sounds like it should be in a flowerpot in a hanging garden. Water your varicella every three to four days and pinch dead blossoms to ensure season-long beauty.

  I forced a smile. “Great odds.” My chest felt heavy and tight. “Why would chicken pox put someone in a coma?”

  Shane’s eyes dimmed a bit. “Encephalitis. Inflammation and swelling of the brain.”

  I put my face in my hands. “Poor Aaron.”

  “Comas aren’t painful,” Shane said, and I wondered if he was speaking from experience. Then he patted the doorframe. “I gotta set up the next track. Let me know if you need anything.”

  When he was gone, I said to Jeremy, “See? He’s not worried. If anything, he’s kept me calm, arming me with facts.”

  “He’s in denial. If Shane stopped to think about losing you, he would collapse to a quantum singularity.”

  A soft, steady knock came on the front door upstairs.

  Jeremy and I looked at the swinging-hips Elvis wall clock—4:35. “Who the hell’s that at this hour?” he said.

  I forced my stiff legs to support me as we hurried upstairs to the front door.

  Standing on the first step, Franklin squinted up at us, his face ghostly pale in the dim office light.

  “Aaron never woke up,” Franklin said slowly, each word crawling out of his mouth. He put his hand on the iron railing. “He’s dead.”

  Instinct drove me to step forward and slide my arms around Franklin. It wasn’t until I felt his hands on my back that I realized I’d never hugged him before.

  He pulled tighter, one hand against my hair. “I better not lose you, too,” he whispered.

  I was so shocked that I let go. We both coughed, and Franklin rubbed his nose before adding, “It would make a lot of extra work for me.”

  I didn’t laugh, though that would’ve been easier. “I’m so sorry, Franklin.”

  “Me, too,” Jeremy said behind me. “Aaron was a great guy.”

  “Tell me about it. He was much more than I deserved.” Franklin brushed past me on the way into the office.

  I shut the door and locked it. “You’re not here to work, are you?”

  “I don’t know why I’m here. I just couldn’t go back to our house. Not yet.”

  “So what happened?” I asked softly.

  He turned to us and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “At two sixteen, he went into respiratory arrest again, and they couldn’t—” His voice caught, and he ran a hand through his hair so hard I thought he would pull half of it out. “His family’s flying in from Colorado later today. My parents can’t make it until tomorrow. Flagstaff had a late ice storm, and…” He stopped, his gaze flicking back and forth over the floor, as if his next words were carved into the rough hardwood surface.

  Jeremy cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you were from Arizona.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’m from here. My parents retired there, because they love the Grand Canyon.” He let out a harsh sigh and stared at the twelve-point deer head mounted on the wall. “Fuck. I promised Aaron I’d take him to see it.” Franklin spat the word again, “Fuck!” and shook his head, eyes narrowed, as if he’d forgotten to pick up the dry cleaning.

  I shifted my feet, barely holding back my tears. On the whiteboard behind Franklin, Aaron’s cartoon tale remained.

  “Want me to make coffee?” Jeremy said.

  Franklin looked at him like he was speaking Swahili, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Jeremy hurried downstairs. Franklin shuffled toward his office, his posture that of an old man.

  I followed him, stopping in the doorway as he eased himself into his office chair. “If you won’t take time off, then let me do your appointments the next few days. Or longer.”

  “No!” He jerked up his head. “You can’t go out in public. The doctor said anyone without immunity was in danger.”

  “But Aaron didn’t cough or sneeze on me. Shane said that with chicken pox—”

  “Ciara, this isn’t normal chicken pox.” Franklin’s voice cracked as it rose. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, but it’s serious. It could be some kind of supervirus.” His elbow on the desk, Franklin pointed a shaky finger at me. “And you could be next.”

  12

  Dear Mr. Fantasy

  I’d expected the county health department’s decor to match its 1970s utilitarian exterior. Dull green linoleum floors, mustard yellow doorframes, beige walls covered with cracked-framed motivational posters exhorting employees to “Persevere.”

  Instead, the place where I was facing my biggest phobia radiated a contemporary touch. Soothing pastel walls conversed with freshly buffed, cream-colored floors. It almost looked like a hotel.

  “Which room is it?” Lori asked as we stood before the building’s directory.

  I unfolded the sweat-dampened paper I’d been clutching. “106. Oh no, that’s on this floor.”

  Lori seized my elbow before I could run. It had taken half an hour of pleading and ridiculing to get me out of the car.

  “It’s almost five o’clock,” she said. “They’ll be closing soon.”

  “Then we should come back tomorrow. I don’t want to bother them. Remember when you used to work at the bar, how much you hated people who came in two minutes before closing?”

  “I was serving drinks, not saving lives.” She tugged harder on my sweater, and I finally relented so that it wouldn’t rip.

  At 2 p.m., Sherwood College had sent an e-mail to all the students, faculty, and staff, notifying them of Aaron’s death. The message implored those of us without chicken pox immunity to make tracks for the county health department, where medical staff would be giving out free varicella vaccines. Getting an injection within seventy-two hours of exposure was supposed to provide seventy percent immunity against the disease, and ninety-five percent immunity against a severe attack.

  Of course, that applied to normal chicken pox.

  As we walked down the shiny hall, I rubbed my shoulder, where I imagined the needle would stab me. “What if I have another allergic reaction?”

  “The doctors can take precautions,” Lori said. “Worse comes to worst, the hospital is next door.”

  “Great.” I crumpled the e-mail message in my pocket, trying to think of anything but the sensation of a long, sharp implement penetrating my skin.

  Just before we reached room 106, its door opened slowly. A young man with scraggly dark curls shuffled out, trailing a backpack listlessly behind him.

  “Turner?”

  My classmate saw me as he let the heavy door slam shut behind him. “Hey, uh… is it Kara?”

  “Ciara, whatever.” I looked at the door. “Chicken pox shot?”

  “Yeah.” He leaned his shoulder, then the side of his head, against the wall. “I figured after what happened to Professor Green, I better not take any chances.” Turner swiped his sweaty hair back from his face. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “He was one of the best,” Lori said. “All the history majors loved him, even though he gave such hard exams.”

  “I really wanted to take his fall course on…” Turner ran a finger under the collar of his polo shirt. “On… uh… the Crimean War.”

  Lori whimpered. “That was my favorite class ever.”

  I stepped closer to him. “Turner, are you feeling okay?”

  “I was.” He put his hand on the brass plaque next to the door and traced the numbers 106, his eyes glazing over. “When I cam
e here I was fine. Then I got the shot, and now I feel like utter crap.”

  I touched his arm. “Maybe you’re allergic? I had a reaction when I was a kid.”

  “No, they tested me first.” He leaned his forehead against the plaque. “I actually got the shot like… two hours ago, but I forgot my phone here and… had to come back. To get my phone. I forgot… I forgot my phone.” Still slumped against the wall, he turned to me. “Do you think I’m hot?”

  Lori reached out and felt his forehead. “My God, you’re on fire.”

  Turner’s lashes fluttered as he closed his eyes. “I thought so.” He swayed, staggered one step to the left, then collapsed.

  “Turner!” I caught his upper body before his head could hit the hard floor. “Lori, get the doctors!”

  “Ciara?” Her voice pitched high with fear as she pointed.

  Turner’s shirt was riding up, revealing a band of lesions crawling across the pale skin of his abdomen.

  I leaped back, my hands high in the air.

  “Get out of here!” Lori whispered as she dug in her purse. “Here’s my keys. Go wait in the car and use the wet wipes in the glove compartment. Don’t touch your face!”

  I took the keys from her trembling hand. “What about him?”

  “I’ll get the doctor. Run!” She jerked open the door to room 106.

  As I backed away, Turner started to convulse.

  I ran for my life.

  Fifteen excruciating minutes later, Lori sank into the driver’s seat next to me.

  “What’d they say?” I asked her.

  She spoke slowly, as if the words prickled her tongue on the way out. “That guy from your class had no symptoms of chicken pox when he walked in, but two hours later he’s on his way to ICU. Just like Aaron.” Her voice choked on our professor’s name.

  “So what does that mean? Did the vaccine give him the disease, or did he already have it and the shot made it worse?”

  “They don’t know.” She shoved her hands against her face and swept her hair up off her temples. “They don’t know anything, and that’s what’s so scary. They’re calling the state health department and then maybe the CDC.”