Bring On the Night (11 page)

“Oh my God.” Lauren covered her mouth. “This is just like I was sophomore year.” She looked at her roommate. “When I had chicken pox, remember?”

I dropped Aaron’s hand. “Chicken pox?”

“Help…” Aaron finally won the battle with his shirt, jerking it out of his waistband. He shoved it up and scratched deliriously. Across his taut abdomen lay a crooked line of red bumps, their centers swelling white.

“That looks like what I had.” Lauren’s voice shook. “But I didn’t get every symptom the same day. By the time I got those spots, I didn’t have a fever anymore.”

I stood slowly, holding my breath.

“Maybe it’s not chicken pox,” Mark said. “Shit, maybe it’s smallpox.”

“Smallpox is extinct.” Pamela placed her folded sweatshirt under Aaron’s head.

“Terrorists might have it.”

“And release it here in Sherwood instead of a big city? Brilliant tactic.”

“It could be a test run. Or maybe he got it when he was in Hungary last week. They probably have terrorists there.”

I backed away toward my seat, fear stiffening my limbs into slow-mo.

Krista slapped shut her phone. “Ambulance is on the way.”

Mark turned to Lauren. “You didn’t have chicken pox until you were a sophomore in college? How is that possible?”

“I was homeschooled,” she said, “and my parents thought
vaccines cause autism or something. So I almost died.”

“Shut up!” Pam hissed. “Professor Green’s still conscious. He can probably hear you.”

I finally reached my desk, where I fumbled in my bag for my cell phone.

Turner had already shoved his books into his backpack. “Good luck,” he muttered to me as he hurried for the door.

I pressed the 4 key, Franklin’s speed dial. He answered gruffly as always. “What?”

“Has Aaron ever had chicken pox?”

“I have no idea. Why?” He drew in a sharp breath. “Is he sick?”

“Fever, itching, rash. We called 911. Can you meet him at the ER?”

“I’m on my way.” I heard the jingle of keys in the background. “Why do you think it’s chicken pox?”

I told him what Lauren had said.

“I have no idea if he’s had it.” Franklin shifted the phone. “I thought everyone got it when they were kids.”

My throat clenched around my words. “I haven’t had it.”

Through the front door of my apartment I heard the distinctive introductory riff of the Pixies’ “Here Comes Your Man.” Shane was rehearsing for his next gig with Vital Fluid, the band he’d formed with one of his donors and another human.

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.”

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.