S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND, Season One Omnibus (127 page)

“
So?”

“
So you go around and bite people until somebody takes your head off with a machete That's bad enough to think about, but what about all those other people you'd infect, Jess. What if you caused another outbreak?”

“
That wouldn't happen. I wouldn't do that.”

“
Like you'd have any choice in the matter.”

“
I don't care.”

“
You were in Seattle when the last one happened, Jess.”

“
We left before it started. I never saw anything.”

“
But it still happened.”

“
Yeah, and that was how long ago? Five years? They got it under control.”

I exhale and shake my head. It's so hard to think of those things when it's everything I can do to just focus on the situation at hand.

He reaches into his pocket and digs out his Link, then thumbs the screen to check the time. “He's been out an hour. This is the longest for any of them. I'm starting to get worried.”

I sit there and stare at Reggie and watch the tidal movement of his chest, and I think about Jake downstairs. I really should check on him, make sure he's not getting any worse.

“
I wish there was some way to wake him up,” Kelly says.

“
Damn it!” I slap my forehead.

“
What?”

“
Back when I first escaped from Nurse Mabel, when I was trying to rescue the others so we could leave LaGuardia—this was before we ran into you—I used smelling salts to wake Ashley up. I think I still have a couple in my pack!”

“
They're probably smashed by now. And maybe you don't want to use them. His nose was bleeding.”

I jump to my feet. “I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere!”

Kelly stands up. “I'll go with you.”

“
No! You stay here with him, in case he wakes. We don't want him wandering off. I'll only be a few minutes.”

But I can see the worry in his eyes. He's walks over to the knife I'd earlier pulled from Shane's body, the one I'd used to finish all three of Ben's victims off with. I'd thrown it into the corner in disgust after taking care of Casey. But now he picks it up and holds it out for me to take. “Just in case,” he says.

I look at it, not taking it. But finally I do. “Jake's not going to turn.”

“
I know, but I'd feel better if you took it,” he insists, and I can see it in his eyes that he doesn't trust his own judgment. Or mine. Or the treatment.

The problem is, neither do I.

 

Jake's skin feels considerably cooler,
tepid almost, and somehow that seems so much worse than the fever. Instead of getting over the infection, it's like he's dying and his body is beginning to chill. His arm still feels like a sack of water, like a liquefying jelly-flesh. I imagine it filling up with dying virus.

On the other hand, his skin color does appear to be a little less sickly. It might just be my imagination, or the inconsistent lighting, though. And there's also a stronger smell about him, not rancid, but of something ancient, like old leaves and dust, and also mediciny. It reminds me of one of those post-mortem injection centers Eric once told me about. I've never been in one, but that's what it makes me think of. It makes my nose and eyes sting.

I stand there for several seconds watching him breathe, listening to the rattling sound of his struggles. He's taking in stronger breaths now, deeper. It's noisier, like whatever invisible fiend had its fists wrapped around his throat is slowly loosening its grip. He's not struggling as much to live.

For the first time since arriving yesterday, I actually begin to believe that he might still make a recovery. Maybe not a full one, but some kind of recovery.

I pull one of his eyelids up and allow the wan light from the ceiling to shine in, but his pupil gives only the barest of responses, the tiniest of contractions. The eyes aren't just windows to the soul, but also to the brain, and right now Jake's curtains are shut and nobody's home. It's not what I'd hoped, but I when I rub a hard knuckle over his sternum or pull the head of a screw across the bottom of his foot—like I learned from Nurse Mabel—it confirms my fears. I get nothing but the slightest of twitches. Jake's gone. I don't know if or when he'll return.

I find my backpack lying in a heap underneath an overturned chair and I check inside of it for the smelling salts. There's a moment of dread when I remember Ben dumping everything out onto the floor of the house near the wall where we waited out the IUs, when I think that maybe he didn't put everything back. I know he didn't. I remember seeing my other pants sitting on the floor when we left. I find the pistol and stick it into my waistband and continue to dig around.

I find the ampoules buried down near the bottom. The white box we'd gotten out of the nurse's cart back at the airport is now soggy and falling apart. One of them has smashed, staining the cotton sleeve and the protective wrapping with the faint pink dye. The other two are still intact.

I toss the backpack to the side and stand up. I'm tempted to crush one now and stick it under Jake's nose, but I already know what'll happen. He'll just lie there and not move. If the other tricks didn't elicit a response, then smelling salts isn't going to wake him.

I just hope they wake Reggie.

Carefully, I unwind the wrap holding the bandage on his neck in place. The heavy stench of rot hits me square in the face, making me gag. The wound is no longer bright red or blackened by bruising, but almost blanched to a pale gray. The edges are the color of wet campfire ash, pale and translucent, turning an almost greenish hue further out before reluctantly giving way to the paleness of his skin. The edges of the teeth marks are dry, desiccated by his severe fluid loss. They've lifted and pulled away, leaving gaping holes big enough that I could stick my finger into each one, probably up to my first knuckle. I shiver at the thought, then quickly replace the bandage, grateful to get that nasty wound out of my sight. Grateful to block that noxious smell. I catch an undertone of Brother Nicholas' herbal mixture, hovering just beneath the thick, cloying husk of decay, and my eyes stray to the wall where Reggie splashed the unused mixture in his earlier rampage. It makes me wonder if the stuff actually works or if it was just to cover the smell.

When I'm finished, I head back to the elevator. I'll leave Jake uncovered for now, since he's still a little warm. I'll return in a little while to check. Someone will have to dress him and get him ready to take back. I hope Kelly has figured out how we can do that.

† † †

I find Reggie sitting up and leaning against the wall when I return upstairs. Kelly is kneeling beside him with an old plastic trashcan under his chin. Spittle drips from Reggie's lips, which are shiny with vomit and chapped from dehydration. His face is pale. He barely registers my presence when I say his name.

“
He's still really out of it,” Kelly tells me quietly.

Reggie lurches forward and Kelly thrusts the can in front of him, but though he gags, his mouth open as wide as his jaw will allow and his tongue arching outward and down toward his chin, nothing comes out. There's a terrible retching sound, followed by weak coughing, a gasp of utter despair. Reggie leans back again, exhausted. He looks absolutely miserable.

“
Has he said anything?”

Kelly shakes his head. “It's only been a couple minutes. Give him time. How's Jake?”

“
Fever's broken. He's still a little warm. Definitely a lot cooler than before.”

Kelly shakes his head. “The stuff actually works.”

I frown. “I checked to see if he's conscious, but he's totally unresponsive. It'll be a while before we know anything for sure.”

You already know. He's brain dead.

“
Still breathing? You checked?”

I nod.

Kelly braces the trash can between Reggie's legs and pushes himself up to his feet. He moves stiffly, more like a man in his sixties, like someone old enough to begin his LSC, than a boy on the edge of manhood. The lines on his face have deepened and there's a shadow there, and not just from the smattering of unshaven bristles on his chin and jowls. He comes over and wraps his arms around me. I don't resist.

I press my ear up against his chest and listen to the sound of him breathing, the slow, smooth whoosh of air and that familiar steady beat of his heart. He runs his fingers into my hair, pulling it away from my face, and I close my eyes and picture other times and other places when we were happier.

When were you
not
happier? Even at the worst of times, you were happier than this.

I wonder, what does he see in me? Why does he love me?

With my history—my family's history and my own—how could anyone love someone like me?

A shiver runs through my body. My mind worries about these things while my heart tells me not to, to just be secure in knowing that he does love me and that it doesn't matter why or how or in spite of whatever. But my mind, ever restless and doubting, tries to sabotage me:
Do you love him?

I do.

I think I do.

I don't know anymore.

You do
, my heart tries to tell me, but my mind is doubtful.

“
What's this?” he asks. And his fingers pick at a snarl of hair at the back of my head. They pull at it.

“
Ow! Stop.”

He pulls his fingers out and studies them for a moment before saying, “You're bleeding!” He tries to turn my head to see, but I resist.

“
Your implant—?”

“
It's not the implant. Casey shot me—well, shot
at
me and missed. I got a bunch of splinters.”

“
When?”

“
When I first ran into them outside the wall. I thought Ben was a Player. Casey thought I was going to push him over the edge and into the water. I mean, I was going to. Anyway, I moved right when he pulled the trigger and he missed. The bullet hit a tree and I got a headful of bark. I'm fine. Really. Don't worry.”

But he doesn't listen. He pulls my hair up to look. It feels heavy, greasy and filthy.

“
That hurts, Kel. Please. I'm fine.” And I move away from him, irritated that our moment of connection is gone. Despite whatever doubts I have about us, at least for those few seconds I'd forgotten them. Or at least forgotten about us being here in this wretched place.

I push away and glance over at Reggie. Still sitting with his mouth over the bucket. At least he hasn't had to throw up again. He just sits there, one knee bent and an arm draped over it, his head down and a line of drool dripping toward the floor. I wonder what's going through his mind right now, whether it's still just a lot of white noise left over from the implant inside of his head trying to kill him, or whether deep down he's worrying about Ashley. Or maybe it's both. I don't know. I worry about him.

“
We need to figure out what we're going to do,” Kelly says.

I can feel the heat in my face rising. I just want him to make a decision—to make a decision that doesn't involve sitting around and discussing things ten different ways till Tuesday and studying every god damn nuance.

“
We still need to warn Father Heall,” I tell him.

Below me, Reggie breathes faster for a moment. His hand twitches, and the spit string breaks and drops.

“
Reggie didn't do it before?” Kelly asks. “I thought he did.”

“
His Link was broken, remember?” I pull mine out and find Micah's identifier. I hit CONNECT.

Kelly watches over my shoulder as we wait for it to connect. Then the timer starts counting and the screen goes blurry as it tries to focus on something. A voice says, “Hello? Is that you Jessie?”

Kelly frowns. “I thought you said they took his Link away,” he whispers.

“
Micah?”

“
Yeah, it's me.”

 

“But…but…”
I can't seem to think. My mind fills with white noise, like the roar of some giant cascade. I feel the floor beneath my feet tilt and once more I'm far away, in New York, at Niagara Falls, and the world is shockingly white and the water is rushing down over me and I feel like I'm suffocating. My lungs feel like they're frozen. “How…” My voice comes out in a squeak. “How did you—?”

“
Oh, that's right,” Micah grunts. I can see the flash of anger in his eyes, something rare and frightening and unconstrained. A look of betrayal, like
I
wronged
him
. And it scares me. He rarely ever let any anger show before. He was always so quick to reel it back in. “Expecting someone else? Brother Walter maybe? Sister Jane?”

Again I try to speak, and again nothing comes out. My mind can't seem to form any coherent thoughts, or none that my mouth can translate into coherent speech. I can only stand there and stare stupidly while he shakes his head at me. A thousand questions speed through my brain, a thousand scenarios to explain why he's answering his Link: his escape from the brothers—
What did he do to them?
—his escape from Father Heall—
Did he murder them all?
I picture Sister Dorothy and Julia in the kitchen. Sister Jane.
Did he hurt them?