by Z. Rider
“And then we keep fucking going!”
Ray pushed off the door.
If he wasn’t taking his coat off, Dan was putting his on. He was cold anyway. Christ, he was going to have to stay awake all night to make sure Ray didn’t slip out. “We keep fucking going.” He followed Ray into the living room.
“Call your mom,” Ray said. “Let her know you’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Are you coming?”
He dropped into his chair, fishing for his cigarettes. “Nope.”
“Why? What the fuck are you accomplishing here?”
“Listen, you fucking get it or you don’t. Call Faye. She’ll be worried out of her skull.”
“I want to get it,” Dan said. “Help me fucking get it.”
Ray pointed the remote at the TV. A riot in New York flashed onto the screen.
Fuck him then. Dan dragged his phone out. Listened to it ring. When his mom answered, he said, “Hey—yeah, I’m fine. We’re fine. No, I’m not gonna be back tonight. I’m gonna stay at Ray’s awhile. Yeah, as long as it takes.” Watching Ray the whole time, Ray shaking his head, lighting his cigarette. “No, we’re good. We’ll be fine. How’s everything there?” He listened for a while, catching up. When he hung up, he said, “They could really use us there.”
“They could really use you there.”
“Jamie’s grudgingly willing to donate, but they’re worried about the drug use.”
Ray dragged on his cigarette, his face turned away.
Dan sat on the edge of the coffee table. “There’s seven donors to two infected, you know. You and Rich can still donate. He needs blood that isn’t his, you need blood that isn’t yours.”
“I don’t need any fucking blood. I told you.”
“Yeah. It’s a great plan. I’m fucking applauding you inside.”
Ray gave him the finger.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The phone jarred him from the uncomfortable armchair he’d parked in front of Ray’s bedroom door. As the ringtone played, Ray rolled over in bed. Dan fumbled it, trying to cut off the sound, and brought it to his ear. “Yeah.”
“How’re things going?” Buddy asked.
“Uneventful.”
“He coming back here?”
Dan scrubbed the sleep out of an eye. “Not yet.” He had to take a piss, and his neck sent a jolt of pain to his skull when he glanced toward the kitchen window. Early morning sunlight brightened the place at least, making the empty can of Spaghetti-Os on the counter look almost festive.
“Are you at Ray’s? Should I come by?”
“I am, and no.” He fought a yawn and lost to it.
“Tell him to get over himself and have some sense. We all came out here for safety in numbers, and two of our numbers aren’t fucking here anymore.”
“Will do.” He passed the message along when he hung up. Ray grunted. Dan unfolded himself, nudging the chair with his knee so he could get to the bathroom. He kept an ear out while he was pissing, just in case.
Once Ray was up and in the shower again, Dan turned on the TV, checking the news.
Ray came out, toweling his hair. “Anything new?”
“Nothing you’d want to hear about. What do you want to do today? We should find some food. You’ve got shit in your cabinets.”
“Yeah, I brought most of it to your mom’s.”
“You’re gonna need food to fight this off,” Dan said. “Keep your strength up if you’re going to outlast them.”
“You’re humoring me, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, well. What else can I do?” He dragged his coat back on. He hadn’t bothered taking the boots off, just in case. He wished he’d fucking worn socks.
† † †
They scouted everywhere they could think of in Ray’s car, managed to scrounge up a few grocery bags of stuff they could use. It meant breaking into a Market Basket, but they hadn’t been the first—all they had to do was step through smashed glass. They’d picked through what was left on the shelves, Dan asking, “How do you feel about beets?” Ray’d made a face. Dan put them in the sack anyway.
“Let’s hit the Vista on Main,” Dan said.
“You want to go by your place?”
“Nah.” He wanted to go by Dunkin’ Donuts, which was no doubt shuttered like everything else. But still…he wanted to go by, see for himself. Patricia clung to his thoughts, all mixed up with what’d happened to Bethany that night her husband had gone nuts.
“How are you holding up?” Dan said.
“Neck’s a little itchy,” Ray said.
“Yeah, I picked up on that.”
“Headache’s there too. I threw some aspirin in the bag.”
“That won’t help much,” Dan said.
“I like to feel like I’m doing something proactive.”
“Like reading a kid’s book about parasites?”
“You should try it. It was interesting. I wanted The Behavioral Ecology of Parasites too, but I guess UPS stopped delivering to residences around the time I was expecting it to show up.”
“Slow up,” Dan said, putting a hand on the dash, looking past Ray to the brick-and-beige coffee shop on the corner. Parking lot empty. Lights off. Two windows smashed, glass glittering on the pavement in the sunlight. He dropped back into his seat, his insides feeling like they’d been dragged through that glass.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.” He stared at the other side of the street, across to the mill buildings on the river. Nothing was going to be all right.
They brought the groceries up in a single trip while a man in another yard crossed his arms and watched them make the trek up the stairs. Dan hoped the guy wasn’t thinking about their food. He broadened his shoulders, tried to make them look less worth coming after. Of course, if the guy had a gun…
When they were locked back in Ray’s kitchen, Ray said, “Will you please just leave? Take care of Jane for me. Help Buddy and Sarah out. Take care of your fucking mom. You left her with Jamie, of all people.”
Dan pulled a few dented boxes of rice from the bag and headed for a cabinet.
“They need you,” Ray said. “And I need you the fuck out of here.”
“Mmhm.”
He called his mom enough ahead of dinnertime to tell her not to set plates for them.
† † †
At two in the morning, when Dan had his eyes closed, fabric brushed his knee. He peeled his eyes open.
Ray was dressed—boots, coat, ready to go. He crept across the dark kitchen. A floorboard creaked.
Dan grasped the doorframe and pulled himself up from the chair. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere if you’re smart.”
“Are you trying the leave-in-the-middle-of-the-night-so-Dan-won’t-follow thing again?”
“Yep.”
Dan shrugged into his coat. “I’m following.”
“Do whatever the fuck you want.” Ray jerked the door open. The windowpanes rattled.
“When we get back,” Dan said, “can I borrow some socks?” His toes squished in his boots. He must have been sweating while he slept.
“You could go home and get yourself some socks.” Ray crossed the landing in quick strides, hands shoved in his pockets. Turning the corner, he started down the stairs, the heels of his boots giving a sharp rat-a-tat.
Dan flipped the collar up on his jacket, pushed his hands in his own pockets, and hunched in as he followed, one eye on the night sky.
His breath streamed out white in the cold.
The neighborhood was so silent it seemed breakable, like a sheet of ice.
Ray got to the bottom of the two flights, stopped, swore, and started marching back up, barreling right into Dan, who grabbed the railing and turned to let him by.
He gave another quick glance toward the sky—things flying in the moonlight—before hurrying up after Ray.
Wings flapped like sheaves of paper, fast.
His boot caught the edge of the sta
ir tread. He shot his hands out, touching wood with his fingertips long enough to right himself. When he hit the landing, the thing slammed into his shoulder. He threw a hand against the wall to stay on his feet and covered the back of his neck with his other hand.
Ray held the door open, an arm outstretched, his gaze darting to the sky, where a mass of parasites circled and dove.
A fat, black body banged into the wall ahead of Dan. He drew back, then rushed by before it could pick itself up. He ducked through the door. Ray jumped in behind, yanking it shut.
The thing slammed the storm door’s glass, making them jump. Ray threw the heavier door shut. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he whispered.
“It takes one to know one.”
Ray jerked out of his jacket, his lips pressed together, his cheeks ruddy from the cold.
“About those socks…” Dan said.
“How about a shower while you’re at it?” Ray shot back.
“You’re either going to have to put up with the stink or come to Deerfield, ’cause I’m not letting you slip away while I clean up.”
Ray went into his bedroom. A drawer rattled open, slammed shut. He threw a pair of socks onto the chair in the doorway. A moment later, a t-shirt and a pair of sweats followed.
Dan smiled.
† † †
In the early morning, the apartment’s windows rattled with an explosion. Dan pulled the shades and looked out, but the window facing where the sound had come from had another building fifteen feet in front of it. He could barely see the edge of the sky over it.
“The world is going to shit,” Ray said.
Dan made coffee—weak so their stash would last—and took his out on the porch, which faced the wrong way to see anything. A few of the neighbors had gathered in the middle of the street, their hair sticking up every which way, eyes bleary, one of them with a blanket tugged around her shoulders.
“What happened?” he called down.
No one knew.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Elliot Hospital was on WMUR, half of it a heap of smoking rubble, emergency crews carrying bodies out of the part that was still standing. The fourth floor had been a quarantine unit for suckers; someone must have decided to get rid of them in one swoop.
Dan searched the faces of rescue workers, looking for anyone he knew.
Ray sat on the other end of the couch, his forehead braced on tented fingers.
“Bad, huh?” Dan asked, meaning the headache.
Ray’s eyelids creased. His teeth clenched. “I wish you’d go the fuck away. You’re making it worse.”
“Probably.” He popped a handful of popcorn in his mouth. It was a little singed—he hadn’t shaken the pan enough—but it’d been one of the few snack foods left at the grocery store; he wasn’t about to waste it.
“Can you turn it the fuck off? I don’t want to hear this shit anymore.”
Dan pointed the remote, then dropped back on the couch. “You want me to put on some music?”
“I want you to fucking leave.” He propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed his skull with both hands.
“Buzzing bad?”
“You know what’s going to fucking happen. Is that what you want? I attack you, get a taste of blood, fuck up my entire plan, and you think I’ll go back to Deerfield with you?”
Dan tossed another kernel in his mouth. “I don’t care whether you do or don’t go to Deerfield. I just care that I’m with you whatever you do. You and me, baby. ’Cause Two Tons of Dirt is nothing without both of us. I wish one of us had brought a laptop. We could watch Netflix.”
Ray’s phone rang. Ray didn’t move. Dan picked it up. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Buddy said. “Ray around?”
Dan turned a little on the couch. “You want to talk to your brother?”
Ray shook his head.
“He’s not feeling well,” Dan told him. “Headache.” He listened to Buddy describe the ways he was going to strangle Ray, then asked a few questions about the state of things out there. When he hung up, he set the phone down saying, “Jane wants to know when she’s going to see her Uncle Ray again. She’s having nightmares, thinking you’re dead already.”
“Yeah, and she doesn’t need to watch that happen firsthand.”
“Wouldn’t have to if you’d give up your martyrdom and go back.”
“I’m gonna go lie down.”
He waited till Ray was out of the room before dropping back on the couch and pressing his hands against his eyes. He could find rope—tie him up, put him in the trunk, haul him back. At the same time, he wanted to be here. Maybe as much as Ray did. He just didn’t want Ray killing himself in the process.
† † †
He made Hamburger Helper without hamburger, brought a plate to Ray in the dark bedroom.
“Beets for dessert if you finish that,” he said.
“Fuck off.” Ray rolled over, shoving his head under a pillow. Muffled, he said, “I can’t even fucking hit you. I want to beat the shit out of you right now, and I can’t even fucking hit you because it might draw blood.”
“Good thing I haven’t been shaving,” Dan said on his way back to the kitchen. “A razor nick could be your undoing.”
“I should just fucking leave,” Ray called. “Fuck worrying about you getting bitten if you’re dumb enough to follow.”
His phone rang while he was picking up his plate from the counter. His mom’s number. He knew he’d have to talk to her again, knew she wouldn’t be happy.
Instead, Buddy’s voice said, “Jesus, I’ve been trying to get through for hours.”
Blood ran cold down Dan’s scalp.
“I was just putting my boots on to come see you in person. First things first: we’ve got it under control.”
He lowered his voice. “What happened?” Leaving the plate. Opening the back door. Getting out onto the landing, where Ray wouldn’t hear.
“Your mom’s been bitten, but we’ve got it under control. She’s not hurt.”
He felt like he was trapped in rock, weight and silence pressing on every inch of him. Leadenly he pushed the storm door shut till it latched. “What happened?”
“One got in the garage somehow. She went down to scoop some rice out of the tub, and it got her while she was bent over.”
He paced, heat rushing over his skin, making him clammy. Making him sick. Two infected, and only three uninfected to take care of them. And no way Ray would go back there now, add to the load. No way was Ray not going to insist he went back. Three for two—it wouldn’t be enough.
Fuck.
“We’re thinking of moving,” Buddy said.
“What? Where?” The WMUR newscast flared into his head, smoking rubble. “They blew up a fucking hospital today.” Dan had no idea who ‘they’ actually were, but it was someone willing to sacrifice the uninfected to get rid of the infected.
“Yeah, we heard it on the news,” Buddy said.
“Where are you gonna go?” Where could they go? “You’re not thinking of the shelters. They’ll separate you guys—you, Sarah, and Jane one way, Mom and Rich the other.”
“There’s a place that’s not doing that. They’re doing what we’re doing. Up in Vermont.”
“Vermont?”
“It used to be a school, a little south of Burlington. It’s probably mobbed to hell by now, but we’re going to try it. Listen, I’ll tell you more when I get there.”
“No, don’t come.” Dan looked toward the bedroom.
“Dan, come on. He’s my fucking brother.”
Dan pushed his hand into his hair, pulling till it hurt. With his eyes closed, he said, “If you’re leaving in the morning, you guys have a lot to do. And you don’t—man, you don’t fucking need to come out to Manchester and maybe get yourself killed when they need you. The hospital, Bud. They blew up the fucking hospital. That’s not even a mile from here.”
He could almost hear Buddy’s jaw grinding through the phone. Finally, Buddy sa
id, “Talk to Ray. We’re leaving in the morning. Talk him into coming. It’s his kind of shit, everyone banding together to help each other.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“Vermont,” Ray said, wrapped in a quilt, perched on the edge of the couch. The blankets were back over the windows. The only light was the glow of the TV.
The Hamburger Helper had no charm without the beef in it, especially when it was half cold. Especially when his brain kept replaying the scene of his mom’s garage: the blue Rubbermaid tub they were storing the rice in, its lid resting against its side while his mom scooped a measuring cup through the grains. The quick beat of wings, the lights flickering over the walls as the thing swooped toward her stooped shape.
He set his plate on the coffee table.
“What happens when they get there and it’s not that?” Ray asked. “When it’s been overrun or shut down, or it never was to begin with?”
Dan washed what he’d had of dinner down with a glass of water.
“It’s out of control.” Ray pulled the blanket tighter.
Dan rubbed his eyes. He hated to admit it, but this was a weight off—their families would go, and maybe they’d do all right. But he’d never know, not unless this whole shit fiasco got resolved. And until then, he could imagine them on their way to Vermont, Buddy’s truck, Rich’s car, everyone nervous and hopeful. His mom on the passenger side, smiling a little, maybe, as she slipped her hand into Rich’s. She deserved that, right? Not to be alone at the end?
“This just makes me more fucking convinced,” Ray said.
“Of?”
“That I’m not fucking giving in to these things. And that you need to go the fuck home.” He rose and walked out of the room, the blanket hugged around him like a shroud.
† † †
Dan slept with his neck at an odd angle again, a stab of pain going up behind his ear when he jerked upright, confused in the pitch blackness of drawn shades. The claws of sleep gripped him. His ears strained for what had woken him.
Something moved in the dark. Bare feet on bare wood. The thump of a nightstand against a wall.
He got his limbs moving, scrambling over the top of the chair, toppling it, nearly landing on his chin on the linoleum. Crouching on the balls of his feet, he shoved the chair between them, keeping low, ready to dart in whichever direction he could. His breath hit the back of the chair as he peered over the top.