Dead and Beloved Page 5

  My head is clear and the empty screen taunts me, daring me to keep going. I beat the dummy in my room until the street lights outside my window burn like the emotion that's driving me to strike. I'm sweating now; it's the first time a workout has worn me out, but I keep going. The air is fresher, my lungs feel full, and my hands and legs flash with a speed that I’ve never known before. The longer the night goes, the more I find myself moving with the rage of the songs I listen to.

  I strike and blow, thinking I should stop, but my body wants more. I'm fighting the week and fighting the pain of the silent computer screen. No word from Jessica. No family. No friends to hang out with on a Friday night. I'm a freak locked in a hospital. I'm given pills and raw meat. No one cares about me, but they care about what I do, where I go, and who I date.

  I collapse onto my bed, barely able to breathe, but the music plays on. I shut it off—the sounds are annoying me now—and look at the time. Three in morning. Ugh. I switch off the screen and go to sleep.

  Saturday, I'm energized. I wake up before my alarm and am one of the first at the hospital cafeteria. I wolf down my meal, extra pills and all, and then rush to the gym. Basketball. Normally I like to shoot around for a while before joining three-on-three pickup games, but today I feel like getting started right away. I jump into a game of older guys, zombies who are far more advanced in our shared condition. They are strong and tough and falling apart. One guy on my team, Glen, is missing half his face and two fingers on one hand. He's pretty good at balling though, and makes up for Steve, the tall guy we've got who can't even dunk.

  We lose the first game, my shot is off, but then I feel like taking the inside. The guys we’re playing are shoving Glen around like a rag doll.

  “I'm feelin' it,” I tell him. “Just feed me.”

  And he does. I'm bouncing around the court, moving like I'm fifteen again and shoving my opponent like he's not even there. That surprises him and he resorts to jabbing me in back with a bony elbow. I spin around him and dunk, crashing on top of him and yelling at the rafters.

  “Take that, bony,” I scream, flaunting my arms and flexing.

  The other guys laugh and bony tosses me into the wall on the next drive. I don't care. The pain feels good and so does the battle. At lunch, we're forced off the court so the staff can set up for a bingo tournament.

  The day feels fresh and I'm exhilarated from the sport and the chance to clear my mind. I hate living at the hospital, but it's good to be around people who don't call me names. While I'm sitting on my bed, contemplating the day, I realize that it's been twenty-four hours since I've seen the picture of me and Jessica. I hated that picture flashing on phones around me and staring me in the face around every corner at school. But as I'm sitting on my bed, it's all I can think about.

  I turn on my computer and open a chat session. “Are you there?” I ask.

  Silence.

  “I'm thinking about you,” I say, without waiting.

  “It's been a tough week. I needed you.”

  Still nothing, but I keep typing.

  “Hope you're okay.”

  I begin to key something else and the screen flickers. Jessica has checked in. I leap from my chair and wipe my hands dry on my jeans. There's an indication that she's typing something, but nothing comes. I wait. Then as quickly as she arrived, Jessica leaves the session without saying anything.

  I stare at the screen, not believing what I saw. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe I'm making things up in my mind. I had read once that people dying of thirst thought they saw cups of water in strange places. But I'm not dead yet. I saw her name. She was there.

  The moment punches me in the stomach. I decide to go see her again.

  ~ O ~

  The night seems to take forever to come and I'm on edge through dinner. I toss my tray in the garbage by accident and earn a curse from the cafeteria guard. After snatching it back from the bin, I rush up to my room and prepare to sneak out again.

  Waiting for the night shift at the hospital is torture. With our specialized diets and strict sleep requirements, the night staff here is mostly cleaning crew and some emergency room nurses. I live in the only zombie hospital in the state and when someone's been infected, this is the first place they're taken—if they're not killed first. The rest of us used to rush and watch the commotion from the mezzanine over the main entrance. Fresh meat, as we called the new zombies from above, never liked the confines of rooms. They would fight and curse and even try to tear off their own arms to escape.

  No one does watches anymore, but tonight when I hear screaming from downstairs, I decide to go take a look. It’s a young boy. He's lashing with yells and hisses at anyone who comes close to him.

  Watching him brings back memories of my arrival here. I never wanted to come. I fought it hard. I remember my dad, already infected, shoving me through the doorway and telling me this was for the best. Someone had pricked me in the back of the neck. In memory, I realize it was Daphenine, the most effective sedative against those infected with the Virus. I had slammed a guard against the window. I thought then that the glass would break, but the man bounced off it, unharmed. The hospital was prepared for people like me.

  That was the last time I saw my dad. A horrible day etched into my memory forever. I had yelled every curse I knew at him while three guards dragged me into the examination room. I thought I had known pain before then. I thought my life was at its lowest point. I was wrong in the worst way.

  I look back at the kid. He doesn't look older than twelve. He's right to be afraid of this place, but I think zombie life on the streets is probably worse. Most never make it past a week. Those who are deemed treatable became permanent guests here. The others? I've heard that all zombies are cremated. No one has told me otherwise.

  Someone stabs a needle into the thrashing boy's neck and that's the end of the commotion downstairs. He falls limp into the arms of the hospital guards who drag him into the Scream Room. I return to my room and lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling to wait the night away.

  ~ O ~

  Ten o'clock comes and I'm perched at my window, watching the overnight hospital staff arrive at the parking lot across the street. There's little interaction between them; a few hellos, a couple hugs, and a wave or two. While the new arrivals dawdle, the exiting staff step quickly into their vehicles and speed away. It seems no one wants to stay at this place of looming death.

  Soon after, the floor nurse conducts her required bed check before settling into the station at the end of the hall. I watch her with earnest from behind a carefully creviced door and determine it's safe to begin my excursion. I tuck the scan badge into my pocket—a necessity to get back inside. Everyone on the third floor has been given one; it's the only way into the front of the hospital. What no one has thought of, and I'm not about to admit openly, is that the badge also works at the back entrance.

  I'm less on edge tonight, having done this only a couple weeks ago, and am silent while I slip downstairs, behind doors, and between racks of towels and cleaning supplies until I'm safely outside. It's warmer tonight and I feel strange wearing a jacket, but I need to cover my neck. I also need the long sleeves. The skin on my arm started peeling this week.

  City buses are less frequent tonight, something I hadn't planned on, so I'm forced to wait on the bench for almost an hour. Watching the cars pass, wondering if they can see my face wrenches my stomach and makes me more anxious. I'm to the point where I want to take off and run when I see the bus slowly heading my way. It hasn't completely stopped when I'm at its doors. I leap the steps, scan my fare, and scramble to the back. I'm the lone passenger and the driver doesn't wait before lurching the beast forward and hurling me faster into a seat.

  The ride seems slow tonight and I keep checking the clock on the television screen to see if we're behind. According to the schedule, we're on time to every stop, which annoys me. Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion tonight. Seconds churn and minutes pass between a
thousand thoughts. A few miles from the stop I need, I can't take the pace any more. As a bunch of guys climb on board, I shove my way past them and take off into the night. One of them swears at me, but I don't care. I'm already running toward the shadows.

  I want to see Jessica; I need to tell her about my week. While I'm darting from tree to tree to avoid headlights from passing cars, I think about her and the empty chat we shared tonight. Did she see my messages? Why didn't she answer?

  The front porch light at Jessica’s house is on, but the windows are dark. I sneak around back and stare up at the window where I first saw her. My stomach twists and my heart pounds against my chest. I skip a breath and suddenly I'm not as brave as I felt earlier. I'm having a hard time standing, so I crouch near the bushes and wait for the feeling to pass.

  I've never felt this way about anyone, at any time. Even when I came here a couple weeks ago, I didn't feel the same. That night, I didn't know what to expect. Tonight, I'm afraid. The week has been horrible and I don't want it to end badly. I see her name in my mind, the tiny red letters that showed up in chat earlier. I look up and the stars start to spin. Something isn't right. I don't feel right.

  I try closing my eyes, but I still see the stars. They're surrounding me, swallowing me. I fall to my hands and heave in a large breath. The air seems to help fight the dizziness. I stand again and reach for the swing. Then my legs weaken and I stumble into the chain. A giant creak scratches the night as I grip the swing, trying to hold myself up.

  A familiar voice calls to me. “Ryan, what are you doing?” It's Jessica.

  I spin on the chain. In the darkness, I see a shadow, but she's out of focus.

  “Ryan, what's wrong?”

  I slip to the ground. “I don't know,” I say. “Something doesn't feel right.”

  “Why did you come here? You should be in a hospital.”

  “I live in a hospital.” I smile at her.

  Jessica glances around. When she turns, her hair hits my face. It's wet and the water that drips onto my cheek is cold. Then the moment starts to make sense. The dizziness is leaving. I see her clearer; I see her yard and the night around her. I smell her—chlorine covers her body. She's wearing some sort of white cover up or robe.

  “I'm feeling better,” I tell her. I take a deep breath and smile again. “You're all wet.”

  “I've been swimming.” She glances over her shoulder again. “You need to hide, or move. My parents will be home soon.”

  As I stand, she grabs my arm, gripping where the flesh has been working loose. Searing pain shoots up to my shoulder. I wince but don’t mention the pain.

  “Are you okay?”

  “It's been a tough week,” I answer.

  She leads me behind a large thorny bush. “I know the feeling.” She's almost whispering now, as if regret is covering her words.

  “You saw the picture?”

  Jessica nods. She stares at me, examining me, and then touches my cheek with her finger. “You shouldn't be here. It's dangerous.” She glances around nervously as headlights break the darkness. The car passes and she lets out a relieved sigh. “It’s great that you came to see me, but you need to leave. You can't be here.”

  Her voice is shaking and I don't understand why. “I didn't come to cause problems,” I say.

  There's terror in her voice now. “There could be. I can't be here with you. You can't be here. If someone sees us.”

  “What? Why?” I'm almost yelling.

  Jessica grabs my face and shoves me down. “This isn't a game, Ryan. You're in real danger here. I'm in danger.”

  “Why?” I ask again. “What's going to happen?” I throw my arms into the air. “I've already been humiliated on the news. I live in a hospital. Everything I do is monitored and measured. When I finally get alone with a girl, my picture is spread all over the world.”

  “Our picture.” Jessica is glaring at me and her voice is low, like a growl. “You think you're the only one suffering. Did you ask how I was doing? Did you think that I enjoy seeing my picture plastered everywhere?” She shoves my arm. “I can't go places or do anything. I can't even get online without my parents checking in on me.”

  I'm ashamed for a moment. She's right. “That's why we need to see each other,” I say. “To talk about what's going on. To understand.”

  “I want to, Ryan. Believe me, I want to. But not here. You don't know.”

  Lights interrupt us and when their source, a dark BMW, pulls into the driveway, Jessica gasps.

  “You need to go, Ryan.” There are tears in her eyes. “Go now.” She wipes her hair with the towel and scrambles to the garage where the car has entered.

  I want to say goodbye, or wave at least, but I don't get the chance. Jessica doesn't turn back to look. I stay hidden in the bushes and listen for a moment, but the garage door closes, filling the yard with silence.

  I'm not sure what to do, or think. All week I had wanted to talk to Jessica, but this wasn't what I had expected. It was like she was scolding me. And the terror in her eyes. Why was she so afraid? Without an answer to my question, I slip into the night to return home.

  Chapter Seven: Screams

  Sundays at the hospital are the worst. No sports, no activities, only movies and endless examinations. One by one, all of the patients on my floor are taken into the Scream Room for a thorough inspection. I'm given shots, my blood is taken and pressed into a machine for analysis, and my vitals revisited. Worst of all, my wounds are scrubbed.

  When I first caught the Virus, all my muscles seemed to catch fire. I felt like I was burning all the time. When my sister died, she had screamed until her lungs collapsed, pleading to put out the flames in her legs and arms. A month later, I found out exactly what she meant. I craved death then, hoping it would end my suffering. Instead, my dad brought to the hospital. Every time the nurses scrub my open wounds, I long for death again and sometimes even plead for it. No life is worth this much agony, not for anyone.

  When they're finished with the Sunday scrubs, the nurses are given a couple hours off. It's hard for them, too. One nurse cries every time she has to scrub me and then apologizes immediately afterward. I feel sorry for them, but I don't thank them for their empathy. The pain I feel is too horrible to allow that.

  Today I’m doused in Second Skin and additional treatments are applied to my neck and arm. There's a lot of talk about my arm, but it's mostly in whispers. They aren't necessary, though. I know I'm getting worse. I can feel it. There was never a cure for the Virus, only a way to live longer and avoid the fate the other hundred million people like me have already suffered.

  Old Seinfeld reruns are showing on a projection screen in the gym. After my scrubbing I don't feel like laughing, so I wander to the lounge to watch basketball on television. The game's not very good, but I prefer it to the loneliness of my room. Halfway into the third quarter, the game is interrupted by a special report. Someone announces that a cure has been found.

  Everyone scrambles for a closer view of the screen.

  “What couldn't be years ago, now appears to be reality,” says the man in a suit and tie. “Preliminary tests indicate a complete denial of exposure to the Breytazine Virus.”

  I lean forward, completely focused.

  “We go now downtown.”

  A woman appears on the screen near a building I've never seen before, but the mountains are undeniably local. “Thank you, Mark,” she says. “It's in this research lab where a group of scientists may have reached a breakthrough in the fight against Breytazine. Headed by Dr. John Snow, they claim to be able to fight intrusion of Breytazine into the human system.” She turns to a man next to her. “Doctor, what exactly have you achieved?”

  “Well, it's been pretty exciting around here the past few days,” answers the man. “We injected Breytazine into our test subjects, who've already been treated with our formula. None of the hosts accepted the Virus.”

  “So their bodies reject the effects?”

&nb
sp; “Not only the effects.” The man smiles. “The Virus in its entirety. One hundred percent denial.”

  The woman pauses for a moment, wipes her eyes, and then turns back to Dr. Snow. “So those who take the serum will not become infected?”

  “That's right.”

  “Wow. That's the news we've waited years for.” The woman is emotional and the camera focuses on the doctor for a moment. She waves the camera back to her. “It's all right. I'll be okay.” She takes a deep breath. “What about those already infected? Will this help them?”

  Dr. Snow shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Our treatment has no effect on the dying. Our goal from the beginning has been to protect those we can from Breytazine. And we've done that.”

  The lounge erupts. “What about us? Turn it off. This is garbage.”

  As the guard in the lounge scrambles toward the television, a girl appears on the screen.

  “Wait!” I yell. “Don't change it.”

  There, in front of the entire world is Jessica, standing next to the man. Dr. Snow. I gasp as I realize the connection.

  “Who is this young lady?” asks the reporter.

  “This is my daughter,” announces the doctor.

  I'm staring, caught in a wave of emotion. I'm angry, sad, and heartbroken all at once.

  “I did this for her,” says Dr. Snow. He wipes his brow. “I don't want our children to suffer the fate that so many others have. I want them to know life, to know freedom, to know love.”

  I feel like I've been punched in the gut and pushed down an endless well. The room spins, my stomach churns, and I lose my lunch onto the tile.

  “Get him out of here,” one of the nurses yells as she rushes toward a bio-hazard kit.

  I'm carried into the Scream Room, where I'm prepped and cleaned and scrubbed all over again. I vomit a few more times, but I don't care. I stop fighting the impulse despite the nurses' pleas. The past seven days suddenly make sense to me and there's nothing left to live for.