The Rabid (Book 2): Addendum

by Urban, Ami

  The old OR housed a theatre that hadn’t been used in decades. The entire wing of the hospital was almost in ruins. We never used it. Sucking in a breath, I knocked once on the door, trying not to peek through the windows. I didn’t wait for a response and grasped the door handle. When I stepped inside, the theatre was sparkling clean. It was the tidiest I’d ever seen it. Is that what he’d been doing all day?

  Scanning the room, I found him lounging in the dark on a half-wall, one leg dangling and an ashtray in his lap. I remained by the door as the tip of a cigarette cast a glow on his youthful face.

  “Are you smoking?” That was the first question I managed to articulate.

  Without looking my way, he exhaled, his arm falling to his side while the smoke ribboned its way through the open window beside him.

  “Just getting full use of my respiratory system.” He took another long draw.

  I took a step toward an old sofa. Unsure of what to ask next, I simply stood there until he shifted his weight across from me.

  “Breathe. Breathe on me. Be like you used to be…”

  Instead of wondering what was going on inside his head, I turned back to work, putting on my “Psychiatrist Hat.”

  “A 32-year-old man presents with severe abdominal pain,” I said.

  Brendon’s arm stopped halfway to lifting the cigarette to his mouth. He turned toward me, finally meeting my gaze.

  “Huh?”

  “His medical history includes a diagnosis of Sandifer syndrome, scoliosis, a hiatal hernia surgery, and most recently, a laparoscopic cholecystectomy seven weeks ago. The possibility of a post-cholecystectomy common bile duct leak prompted an ERCP. An abdominal examination revealed mild diffuse tenderness. CT guided paracentesis aspirated 280 milliliters of fluid accumulated near the right hepatic lobe and paracolic gutter. Aspirate was described as watery opaque and white with a pink tinge. Discuss.”

  In the dim light of the room, I noticed he blinked a few times while staring at me. His arm was still bent at a ninety-degree angle, the cigarette hanging between his fingers.

  “Uh… Fluid accumulation after abdominal surgery could be the result of several issues.”

  “Such as?”

  He shook his head, a dark lock of hair falling over one eyebrow. “What’s the source of the increased peritoneal fluid?”

  “Lab reports are that there is an increased amylase concentration in the fluid. But, the aspirate following paracentesis contained a high concentration of triglycerides.”

  Finally, his arm fell to his lap, flicking the excess ash into the tray. “So, chylous ascites?”

  “Good. Treatment?”

  “Albumin and a diet change.” He took another drag.

  “Okay,” I continued. “This one, I’m sure you’ll enjoy. It’s a personal favorite of mine. A 69-year-old man was referred to—”

  “Is that why I’ll like this one?” He ashed his cigarette again.

  “Let me finish, please. He was referred to an endocrine clinic with a three-year history of erectile dysfunction, reduced libido, and lack of—”

  “Okay, that’s why I’ll like this one.” He laughed, smoke curling from his mouth.

  “Please.” I put my hands out as he chuckled again. “Lack of nocturnal tumescence with no response to PDE type five inhibitors.

  “The patient had been through a normal puberty. He did not father any children, but never sought fertility treatment. His past medical history was clinically significant for newly diagnosed interstitial lung disease owing to hypersensitivity pneumonitis, osteoarthritis and gastroesophageal reflux. His only medications were ibuprofen gel and lansoprazole. He was never prescribed steroids, ketoconazole or spironolactone. He had not undergone ionizing radiation and denied using over-the-counter or recreational drugs. He was a previous smoker who drank eight to ten units of alcohol weekly.”

  “Hint taken.” His tone was one of slight annoyance as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray.

  “Not my intention. But, anyway, he did not recall a prior history of mumps or testicular trauma. He was unaware of any family members who had an autoimmune disorder or fertility issues.

  “On examination he was obese. He had a normal hair pattern and no gynecomastia. Testosterone was normal. However, his testicular volume was reduced bilaterally at twelve to fifteen milliliters.”

  Brendon tossed his head back and cackled. “I hate you so much.”

  “What is the diagnosis?”

  He continued to laugh while wiping tears from his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “Hypogonadism,” he blurted between giggles.

  “Diagnosis was confirmed on repeated testing three weeks later.”

  Brendon slapped a hand against one knee. “What was the test? ‘Ok, Gerald, pull down your pants while we get out our electron microscope.’”

  The endearing naming of the patient made me smile. His apt descriptions coupled with accurate details made me laugh.

  As his laugher petered out, Brendon stood, placing the ash tray on the wall before approaching me. “Thanks, Bunny. I needed that.”

  I turned somber again. “You’re a fantastic doctor.”

  His smile didn’t disappear, but a sadness bloomed behind his gaze. “I’m just lucky.”

  “No.” I pointed at him. Perhaps a bit rude, but I didn’t seem to care at that moment. “You’re smart. Very smart. And incredibly talented.”

  His dark eyes widened, the tiny wrinkles around them smoothing out. “Am I going crazy? You do not just dish out compliments like that to…anyone.”

  I shifted my gaze to just over his shoulder, studying a patch of green ivy that’d begun to invade the crumbling bricks inside the room. Didn’t I? When someone was brilliant, didn’t I always tell them? I was fairly certain in that moment that I made sure to appreciate the wonderful things in my life.

  When I met his gaze once more, my breath caught in my throat. He’d stopped smiling and seemed to be studying my face intently. And it wasn’t as if he were staring into my soul. No, he was roaming over each one of my features. I noticed the subtle movements. He watched my forehead, my nose, my hairline. He watched my mouth the longest. But when his gaze slipped past my throat, I managed to choke out a response.

  “I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”

  His eyebrows drew together as he looked into my eyes once more. “Am I?” Before I could respond, he kept going. “I’m pretty sure you’re Angelina Jolie.”

  I scratched my temple. “Now I’ve gone crazy.”

  He laughed. The sound boomed through the room, ringing in my ears. “You’re the only psychologist I know who’d risk her career to say that.”

  I frowned, remembering why I’d come to him in the first place. “Unfortunately, I have to be serious now, Brendon.”

  His expression melted into a mixture of one I couldn’t put my finger on. “Uh oh.”

  I brushed my hand against his tricep before retracting it back. “You’re an amazing surgeon. What happened yesterday wasn’t your fault. And it’s not an excuse to miss work.”

  He blinked, keeping his eyes closed for a bit longer on the downturn. Then, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Mama Reynolds.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Please don’t let it happen again.”

  He stood tall and placed one hand behind his back, the other to his chest. “Scout’s honor.”

  April 10 – Jack Reynolds

  It’s been one long month. I’m not even sure when exactly I started smoking again. To be honest, it felt more like an oral fixation than anything else. I mean, I wasn’t getting laid, I was in constant pain and my wife was putting everyone else above me.

  Well, that wasn’t fair. She was doing what she loved – what she was made to do. Plus, that ginger idiot Scotty had been dumped on her as a patient. So, she wasn’t just performing surgeries and writing prescriptions. She was also putting half her psychological energy into a kid with PTSD because he was dumb enough to get bit. Where was my psy
chiatrist time? My problems were worse than that kid’s.

  I dropped the spent cigarette to the ground, crushing it under the toe of my boot. Then, I leaned my head against the back wall of the hospital, the last inhale leaking out of my lungs in a slow puff. I closed my eyes, hoping to calm some of the fluff in my brain. My pain started to act like cotton, threading around the smart parts of my brain until I could no longer function. When it got really bad, I’d have to lie down and not utter a word for hours. It seemed like the smallest vibration of air would sting.

  “Whatcha smokin’, Dood?”

  Fishing in my pocket, I tried to find the pack. When I brought it out, I showed it to him. “Whatever this is. I found it at the hotel.”

  “Noice!” Brendon beamed at me while shoving one of his own cigarettes into his mouth, then lighting it. When he let the smoke out, he said, “Ah, nicotine… Damn your kiss and the awful things you do.” We were silent for a moment. “So… How’d you and the missus meet? Because she’s a closed book. I can’t get anything out of her.”

  Some pride bubbled up inside me. Knowing I was the one she opened up to was pretty awesome. I cocked my head to one side. “Well, I guess I could. You see, I’d just shot my best friend who I happened to be staying with who also happened to live right across the street from Lisa’s best friend who was gonna die soon.” I paused to suck in a breath.

  Brendon nodded, gazing out over the cool morning. “Okay. Okay. Now back up just a smidge.” He lifted his arm to pinch his thumb and forefinger together while elongating the word “just” with a silly voice. “Because the story got a face-lift and I’m in the market for Rhinoplasty.”

  I looked at him to shake my head. “So weird. Anyway, yeah. I worked as a mechanic in my best friend’s shop for…shit…almost twenty years. Since I was eighteen. Got in there right after high school. And when the apocalypse happened, he offered me a place to stay.”

  Brendon turned to face me. “Okay, when I said, ‘back up just a smidge,’ I didn’t mean I wanted your life story.”

  “Get fucked.”

  He leaned back with a sigh. “Ugh, I’d love to. But, you can finish your story, I guess.”

  “Uh… Yeah, so, this one particular day I’d been having a shitty dream about shooting Biters and Silas decides that’s the time to play a trick on me and pretend to be one. Needless to say, I blasted a hole in his chest.”

  Brendon hummed to himself. “That was stupid.”

  I grunted a reply. “Then one of those things went after Lisa. When I saw it coming for her, I jumped in to help. They invited me to go with. The rest is history.”

  “I don’t think so…” Brendon put on a dumb voice again. “I didn’t hear about the wedding. The proposal?”

  “Like I haven’t heard that one before.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes again.

  Brendon was quiet for a moment. I don’t think he understood.

  “The Proposal?” My hands flew out to gesture at nothing in particular. But Brendon just raised an eyebrow. “Ugh. Never mind. Inside joke.”

  “Because you look like Ryan Reynolds?” The question was monotone, almost bored sounding.

  “Oh. You do get it. And you didn’t mean the movie. Jesus, man. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Ain’t no harm done. And I know what you mean. People tell me I look like some famous guy all the time, too. I embrace it. But, keep going with your story.”

  I searched my mind for where I’d left off. “We’d just had this crazy fucking day in Vegas. I’m talking family on the side of the road needs help, we oblige, get our asses handed to us – that’s how I got the fuckin’ bullet in my knee – and to top it off, Lisa’s best friend got fucking eaten in front of her and Lexi.”

  A grimace crossed over Brendon’s face. “Them’s the breaks.”

  “Anyway, I had to kill the bad guy and get everyone out safe. But Lisa…” I paused, remembering something I’d since forgotten. “She fuckin’ beat a guy to death with a cane for trying to hurt her kid.”

  “Whoa…”

  “Yeah. So, anyway… After that, we holed up in this abandoned school for the night and Lisa just decides we’re gonna sex it up.”

  “Wait.” Brendon turned toward me again. “She decided?”

  A ribbon of fresh rage overcame me. “Yeah, she decided. What kind of a guy do you think I am?”

  “Not an actor.” He grinned, diffusing my frustration.

  “Fuckin’ A.” I had to search my mind again. Thinking about Lisa with no clothes on was distracting. A twinge of electricity ran through my groin. “Anyway, I figure it’s a one-night thing because that’s all most girls wanted with me. Even then it was difficult getting one of those going.”

  I paused to give Brendon an opportunity to relate but got nothing. Of course, I got nothing. The kid was as good-looking as they came. He probably had no trouble getting laid.

  “But she up and says she plans on having ‘more sex’ with me.” I put air quotes around the words she’d used. They still seemed amusing. To-the-point.

  Brendon chuckled. “Score.”

  I allowed my head to fall back against the wall. “Yeah. ‘Cept she didn’t wanna get married. We fought about it, separated for a bit, then she warmed up to the idea. We got married here, actually. Well, Huntington House.”

  “No kiddin’.” Brendon finished off his cigarette.

  “She got pregnant.” My tone took on a darkened edge. The world seemed to stand still. “But that didn’t work out as planned.”

  With an expert flick of his wrist, Brendon sent his cigarette flying onto the asphalt. Then, he smiled up at me. “Let me show you something.”

  In the rear of the west wing of the hospital, Brendon had turned an old operating theatre into a kind of bachelor pad. Among the discarded rusty medical equipment was a threadbare sofa and an ancient gurney that acted as a coffee table of sorts.

  Brendon’s black and white converse squeaked against the linoleum as he turned in a wide circle. “Welcome to my jungle. I’ve got fun and games!” His impression of Axl Rose was on point, albeit far, far better. Dr. B didn’t sound like a drowning cat in heat.

  “How often do you come here?”

  “I mostly come here at night. Mostly.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Am I calling you Newt, now?”

  He smiled, then shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.” He watched me sit on the sofa, rubbing the pain from my knee. “Steroids stop working?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?” He studied me.

  I rubbed a hand over my face before answering. “Dunno. A week? Maybe two.”

  “Are you doing anything at home about it?”

  “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “Advil? Aleve? Tylenol? Ibuprofen? Naproxen? Mido—”

  “No.” I just wanted him to stop talking.

  After giving me a sort of half chuckle, he reached into the pocket of his scrubs and brought out a small green bottle. Excedrin. He shook three into his hand, then held it out to me. “Chew ‘em, Mr. Torrance. They work faster that way.”

  I gingerly picked the pills out of his palm, then tossed them back. The bitter taste of chalky minerals caused my mouth to fill with saliva as they crushed between my teeth. I must have been making a face, because Brendon chuckled at me.

  I raised an eyebrow, but he turned around and rooted through a pile of discarded equipment. He brought out what looked like a child’s crutch and brandished it like a baseball bat. He crouched over while tiptoeing across the floor. The pad of the crutch swung in slow circles above his head.

  “Come out, you little shit! Come out and take your medicine.”

  “Cute.” I swallowed the dry pills, wincing as they stung the back of my throat. “That supposed to be your axe?”

  He stopped, brought it in front of him and looked at it for a moment, almost puzzled. “No… It’s a Roque mallet.”

  “A what?”

  “Can’t…can’t you read?”


  “Just because I can do something doesn’t mean I will.”

  Three beeps interrupted his answer. He frowned down at his belt. “Work bad. Smoke good. No want work. Do want smoke.”

  “Emergency?” I asked, standing upright. It was a difficult task. My knee creaked with every move. Any pressure I put on it felt like my bones were scraping together. But the Excedrin seemed to take some of the edge off.

  He shook his head. “Nah. It’s just Bunny. My work wife needs me!”

  I felt a strange electricity shoot into my chest. “She’s my wife.”

  Brendon looked up at me as though he was a deer in headlights. His eyes were large and round. “Don’t feel left out, Dood. You can be my non-work husband.”

  I made a face. “I’m way out of your league, man.”

  April 14 – Jack Reynolds

  I’d just spent the last hour wrangling the kid into his pajamas when my cellphone began to buzz. I didn’t get to it the first time because I was debating tying him down completely. When I reached it, it began to vibrate again. Lisa’s name stared up at me. It was eight. Where was she?

  “Hey, Babe. On your way home yet?” I asked, feeling relief sink into my muscles. All I wanted was to sweep my wife into my arms and hug her until we died. Static leaked over the line, mumbling her words. “What?”

  “I… What…? This is… Phone is terrible. Can you hear me?”

  “I can now.”

  “Alright, great. I’m sorry.”

  “No worries. What’s up? You almost home? The kid would not go down. He kicked me in the bad knee twice. I think I’m gonna need some extra-special lovin’ tonight.”

  There was a pause on the other line. I was about to ask if she was there when her voice came back. “I’m sorry, Jack. There’s been an emergency and we’ve just received ten new patients. I’m afraid I’ll be a while.”

  Her words tore at my insides. I hadn’t seen her in what felt like days. All she did anymore was work at the hospital. And when she wasn’t there or on-call, she was tired. The times I did see her, she’d either be fiddling with the kid or sleeping. For the first time since we’d been a couple, I hated her job.