The Comatose

by Kate Myers

As the last word rolls out of his mouth, I watch him mentally check himself out of the room, running data like he does, not always obvious to those around him but obvious to the observant son standing in front of him.

  “You okay?” Quinn asks him, clearly confused about why he abruptly stopped talking.

  “Huh, yeah, sorry,” he declares and then smiles. “Had an idea.”

  “Let me guess.” I roll my eyes. “You won’t tell me.”

  He points at me and laughs. “You are correct, son. But, don’t worry, I’ll let you know in the morning if I make any progress, deal?”

  “Fine, deal, but I’m serious. If you somehow figure out how to fix all of this, please freaking tell me, or at least tell Quinn so then she can tell me.”

  “Hey, leave me out of this. I’m never telling you anything again,” she jokes, shoving me slightly.

  “All right, be good, I’m super serious. How many times do I have to say I’m serious before you behave?”

  He leaves the room, the air already feeling lighter, the tension lessened following our sort of argument.

  Once I make sure he’s down the hall, I turn to Quinn and quietly ask, “You saw that, right, his weirdness after he said something about a transfusion?”

  25

  Max

  Morning slowly rolls in, each second antagonizing and painful. I wait eagerly in anticipation for whatever update Dad might be able to provide. I barely slept, dozing in and out of consciousness, hopeful that maybe, just maybe he would burst through the door any moment and tell me he figured out how to save Skylar, how to bring her back.

  The clock on the nightstand reads 6:08 a.m., and I know soon that the house will begin to stir—people will wake, have breakfast, and start forming a plan for the day.

  Footsteps permeate the hall and then make their way into my bedroom.

  “Hey, you,” Dad says, almost cheerful.

  My heart decides to do a flip, anxiously catapulting itself.

  “Hey,” I manage to respond.

  “Quinn will be in shortly,” he says, approaching Skylar’s side, notebook in hand.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, a sinking feeling taking hold. My palms fill with a light dusting of sweat.

  He smiles. “Yeah. Don’t worry, I wanted to go over things together, instead of individually, saves time.”

  An eternity passes, or maybe a minute, and Quinn finally enters.

  “Morning, fellas,” she says, towel drying her freshly showered hair.

  “Glad you were able to find some of Maura’s old clothes that fit. I could never bring myself to get rid of them. It’s nice to know they’re coming in handy now.”

  “I had to do a little digging; that woman has way more style than I do.” She laughs. “I really appreciate it, thank you, Keith.”

  I clear the log that has formed in my throat. “So, what’s the update?”

  “Right, Mr. Impatient over here,” he chuckles and winks at me. “So, get this, after further analysis, there is most definitely a reaction with your blood and Skylar’s, and your blood with the woman’s, but here’s where it gets weird—no reaction with the man we’re claiming is deranged. I tested all of the rest of our blood against the two, and there was no positive reaction. Quinn’s and Sanchez’s blood both drastically mutated whatever virus is present from the deranged man’s blood, leading me to assume that had they been infected, they would show signs of being deranged.” He pauses, perhaps allowing this information to sink in.

  Quinn speaks first. “How does Max’s blood factor in here, and yours and Wiley’s?”

  “Well, mine and Wiley’s had no positive effect on Skylar’s. And even though Max’s did, it deems to be only temporary.”

  “What do you mean, temporary?” I say, clearly speaking out of turn.

  “It’s almost as if your blood acts as just a bandage, helping, but not necessarily fixing the problem.”

  My heart seems to shatter, the hope of thinking I could help in some way swept out from under me.

  “Oh,” I say, shrunken and defeated. I must have misread his smile from when he entered the room and his excitement last night of whatever theory he had thought.

  “The immune response is incredible, really. Your blood alone basically attacks what bits of Skylar’s blood is injected, in small quantities obviously. Being such a small sample, it’s a manageable volume, but as a whole, to send minimal amounts of your blood into Skylar’s isn’t feasible.”

  Looking to the floor, Quinn rubs her hands and then seemingly allows her gaze to wander the room at nothing in particular, lost in thought. “You weren’t thinking transfusion.” She says it as both a question and a statement, more so like she’s wanting clarification.

  “No.” He shakes his head.

  My gaze locks on her, then on him, then Quinn once more.

  “Someone tell me what’s going on, please,” I beg. “I can’t read between the lines of whatever medical mumbo jumbo you’re telepathically talking to each other about.”

  Completely ignoring me, she asks Dad, “Is it even possible?”

  “Is what possible?” I ask frantically.

  “In theory, yes. But there are numerous hypotheticals, different variables we need to consider,” he responds.

  “The first of which is whether she’s even a recipient. The magnitude of that alone could pose great risks, even being potentially fatal.”

  “Not only is Skylar a recipient, but they’re both young, healthy. Well, given the circumstances.”

  “Is this even possible? Could we even pull this off?” Quinn stares at Dad while he stares bug-eyed back.

  “Is what possible? Someone tell me what the hell is going on?” I demand.

  Acting as though I’ve only just entered the room, they both face me.

  Quinn declares. “Okay, so sit down.”

  “No, tell me what’s going on. What are you talking about? You two are making no sense.”

  Quinn looks to Dad. “Do you want to explain this or should I?”

  Dad begins, “This is probably going to make no sense, so I’ll try my best to simplify it for you. Heck, I don’t even really know all the technical terms myself.” He laughs.

  I don’t see the humor whatsoever.

  “I’ll try where I can,” Quinn chimes in.

  “Think of it this way. You have a dirty bucket, and it needs to be cleaned. You try to pour clean water in the bucket of the dirt, but it solely isn’t enough to clean it without getting dirty again. So, you filter the dirt and water through a secondary source, like a hose, that self-cleans at a greater rate, and in return, end up replacing the nasty water with clean.”

  “You’re right, even dumbed down I’m not following,” I say.

  Quinn shakes her head. “Okay, listen, Skylar is the dirty blood. You are the clean blood, aka the hose. The clean water, aka blood that we inject, isn’t coming in at a great enough rate to clean her before the virus mutates, so we manage a direct filtering system, siphoning her blood through you, replacing her bad blood with your good blood.”

  “Deal, sign me up.”

  “You’re not concerned with what happens to your blood?”

  “What happens to my blood?”

  “Well, the bad blood that enters your system, your body will fight and basically clean and replenish what you’re giving her.”

  “Great. I don’t see the problem,” I say, glancing at both of them. “When do we start?”

  Quinn smirks at Dad. “I guess consent isn’t going to be an issue then.”

  Dad speaks with precision. “Max, you need to think about this for more than a second. We really have no idea what we’re doing here. This is a theory. A really probable theory, but still. This could pose a threat to both of you.”

  “Look, save your breath, I don’t really want the whole speech. The stop and think about it speech. I get it. This is dangerous. I can’t imagine either one of you has ever done this procedure, let alone us having the proper supp
lies. I understand the risks. I accept them. I cannot accept just sitting here and doing nothing. We have to do something. And if this is the something, then we do it. Just tell me what I need to do. I refuse to have an option and not try.” I pause for a second and add, “I trust both of you.”

  The words slip out of my mouth with ease, even though I’m scared as hell inside. Scared this might not work, scared it might make things somehow worse. I can’t let fear get in the way of doing something that might actually help. The fear of losing Skylar is greater than any other fear I’ve known.

  26

  Max

  I stand there, waiting for some type of response, but am met with Dad and Quinn just sort of looking at each other dumbfounded. They had to have expected I would easily say yes. It’s what I do—I make irrational, immediate decisions, especially if I think it could help someone, not to mention that someone being Skylar. And maybe it’s not whether they expected me to say yes, but whether they think this is actually irrational and stupid. Maybe they were desperately hoping I would say no, so they wouldn’t be bothered rationalizing this seemingly impossible task.

  Maybe I should have said no, maybe I should take some time to think this through. Maybe I should be more concerned with the risks, the dangers I would be putting myself through, putting Skylar through.

  But I don’t. All I can think about are the dead around us. The ticking time bomb that is death, creeping its way closer to Skylar. The woman in the bait shop that I witnessed give her last breath. That could be Skylar, and it could be any moment.

  “Morning, everyone,” a thick manly voice speaks.

  Dad and Quinn let out a collective ‘morning’ while I continue to gawk, unfazed by Sanchez as he walks closer.

  “Any progress?” Sanchez asks.

  “No,” Dad says abruptly, his dishonesty catching me off guard.

  “Oh,” Sanchez replies, visibly disappointed. “I thought you were onto something last night, Keith. You were up nearly all night working, weren’t you?” His question feels forced and obtrusive.

  “For a minute, yes. I fell asleep in my lab, though.”

  Intuition is telling me this is partly a lie. Why is he lying to Sanchez? Why the secrets? There are so many unanswered questions I have yet to ask Dad, so many things that seemingly don’t add up.

  “Huh, okay then. Well, we should really regroup soon. Time is of the essence. We have important work to do.” He raises the steaming cup of coffee in Dad’s direction while offering an awkward smile, and then makes his way out of the room.

  “That was…uncomfortable,” Quinn says quietly.

  “What the hell was that about?” I ask Dad.

  “Sorry,” Dad whispers. “I’m just in no hurry to tell him that my son’s blood could potentially save us all.”

  “Understandable,” Quinn says.

  “How are we going to pull this off then?” I say, trying to keep my voice low. “This guy practically lives with us.”

  Dad scratches his head. “I guess we’re going to have to make this room somehow off-limits.”

  “What about the risk for the virus being airborne? And quarantining the room?” Quinn suggests.

  “That’s a good idea,” I add.

  “He knows too much, though. Way more than he’s letting on. We really should talk about this privately, somewhere he can’t hear,” Dad insists.

  As much as I want to be a part of this conversation, I can’t fathom the idea of all three of us leaving Skylar alone. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving her,” I say, attention trailing over Skylar. “It would probably be easier for only two of us to get away than all three.”

  “You’re right,” Quinn admits. “But you sort of need to be involved, Max. This is your life on the line, too.”

  Dad nods.

  Without allowing him to answer, I say, “You two are the brains of this operation. Just let me know what you figure out. I’ll keep him in the house. Go figure something out.”

  “Okay…” Quinn says, clearly unconvinced.

  I start to push them out of the room and an idea strikes me.

  “Actually, hold on. Give me one minute, I’ll be right back,” I tell them.

  They exchange confused looks but, not allowing them to interject, I bolt out the door.

  I’m almost to the stairs when I catch a peep of him in the peripheral of my vision.

  Wiley.

  He nearly jumps as I clear the space between us.

  Out of breath, I say, “Hey, I need a favor.”

  “What’s up?” he asks, sleepy-eyed with a mouth full of a bagel.

  Lowering my voice, I do a once-over of the room. “Where’s Sanchez?”

  He wipes at his mouth with his napkin. “I think he said he was going to shower or something. Why?”

  “This is going to sound strange, but I need you to keep him occupied.”

  He scrunches his eyebrows. “What like, in the shower?” He chuckles and picks up his mug, taking a sip of his way-too-sweet coffee. Wiley is a little-coffee-with-his-sugar kind of guy.

  “No, not in the shower, you weirdo.” I lightly smack his arm. “I mean, I need you to keep him in the house until I give the go-ahead, okay?”

  “What’s this about? Where’s your dad?”

  “We just need a tiny bit of time for Quinn and Dad to talk. Can you please just keep him occupied?”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever. But I want the details soon, too.”

  “Thank you, you’re a lifesaver.” I grip his shoulder firmly and then walk away. In a whisper so he can’t hear, I add, “Literally.”

  I’m almost out of the room when he asks, “Is everything okay?”

  I turn quickly on my heel and grin wide. “Yeah, everything is okay.”

  “Holy shit,” he exclaims. “Haven’t seen you smile in ages. Not a bad look, kid.”

  “Thanks,” I say, making my leave.

  For the first time in a while, my heart feels light. I feel light. Like I’m floating on a cloud of puppies. The calm, rational side of me knows how foolish it is to get my hopes up, but the desperate, hopelessly in love side of me is pleading with the universe to please let this work. Let this bring Skylar back, let this rid her of whatever hell she’s been forced to endure. To let me be the one to make this sacrifice for her, to do everything in my power to help, even if I must suffer, too, because I can’t imagine any amount of physical pain could be any worse than what I’ve already been feeling.

  I will do this, and I will have no regrets. I made her a promise to protect her, and I can’t break that, not now, not ever.

  27

  Max

  I practically have a heart attack when Sanchez barges into my bedroom.

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to scare you. Where’s your dad?”

  Ugh, Wiley, hello, where are you?

  The lump of lies forming in my throat makes it difficult to swallow. I don’t dare look away from Skylar, her face a little less pale than usual. “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Did you ask Wiley?”

  He shakes his head. “Not yet.” In my peripheral, he motions toward Skylar. “So, any updates?”

  He’s prying, and way more than normal. He’s up to something.

  I shrug again, a nervous tick I can’t seem to stop. “They don’t really tell me anything.”

  “That was a real stupid move, running off like that. I’m not here to tell you how to live your life, but that kind of behavior will get you killed really fast.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. You could have gotten Quinn hurt, too. She ran out of the house after you. Your decisions don’t only affect you, you know?”

  Just then, Wiley pokes his head into the room. “Alex, hey, I’ve been looking for you.”

  Sanchez, or Alex as everyone else seems to be calling him, lets out a sigh and turns to face Wiley. “What for?”

  Wiley brings his hands out from behind him, revealing a partially dismantled gun. He ma
nages to spit out a few words, “I was trying to figure out how to take this—”

  Alex cuts him off, “Whoa, whoa, what did you do? Put that thing down.”

  “What, I just…” Wiley is seemingly oblivious to the grown man panicking in front of him. Pure genius on Wiley’s behalf. He winks at me and adds, “I just wanted to figure out how to clean it.”

  I hold in a laugh, not knowing Wiley had it in him to be so convincing.

  “You can’t go taking guns apart around here like this. Here, give me that,” he demands. “Come on. I’ll show you the right way to clean a gun.” He shakes his head and leaves the room.

  I wink at Wiley and mouth, “Thank you.”

  I catch sight of Skylar’s notebook on the bedside table. I find myself hoping that maybe soon I won’t have to hang on to this only lifeline I have of Skylar, that she’ll return and be able to articulate her own words for me to consume instead of me invading her thoughts. I’m sure this will end up with her being super pissed at me for reading some of her journal entries, but I’ll take her pissed at me over this any day.

  I press her hand up to my face, gently resting my lips against her bare knuckles.

  “Hold on a little longer,” I tell her tenderly. “This could all be over soon. Dad and Quinn have a plan, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.” I exhale deeply. “I’m so sorry for all of this, you didn’t deserve this, Skylar. Whenever this is all said and done, I hope you know I never meant for this to happen. Even before this, the arguing, being against one another. I hope you’ll know that you can trust me, to be here for you, to protect you, to be the person you need me to be. Whatever that may be. I believe in us, in you. I hope you’ll believe in me, too.”

  An agonizingly long hour goes by until the front door creaks open. Footsteps fill the space, and then Quinn and Dad make their way into my bedroom.

  Quinn divulges. “It’s not pretty, but we think we have a plan.” She falters for a second. “Have you eaten?”