One Kiss: An Apocalyptic Urban Fantasy (Transmissions from The International Council for the Exploration of the Universe., #1)

by E. J Kimelman

  A reporter yelled a question that the audience at home couldn't make out, but the chief answered it. "At this time we are not sure why the victims of these attacks are having seizures and exhibiting other side effects. That is something we are working closely with the doctors over at Mercy to figure out."

  Another unintelligible question.

  "At this time the CCA has not been brought in, since we believe it is a drug, not a virus, causing these attacks."

  "Do you plan on canceling the annual zombie run?" a reporter in the front row asked, his mouth close enough to the mic for the audience to hear.

  "No," she smiled. "These are not zombies."

  "They brought the victims here?" I asked.

  The nurses turned to look at me, noticing my presence for the first time. "Oh, hi, Darling," Claire said. "Yes," she answered my question, her voice turning grave. "They came in late last night."

  "Terrible," I mumbled, casting my eyes to the floor.

  "How are you, Darling?" Harriet asked. She pitched her voice upward with my name, something about her tone implying that it was almost impossible for me to be doing well. Or at least, if I was in good shape, it was a struggle. She expected a sad smile, a brave face.

  I looked up at her, making eye contact. She started a little under my gaze, her eyes slowly growing glassy as I held my gaze on hers. "I'm fine," I said, turning my focus back to the floor. Looking at my shoes, black little lace-ups, like a schoolgirl would wear.

  "Yes," Claire said. "I saw that. So brave of you."

  I kept my eyes on the ground as I shrugged. "If I can help," I said. This was my fourth bone marrow harvest. When the doctors suggested the treatment for Megan I was tested but wasn't a match for her. However, I was a match for a lot of other people. In fact, I was a record-breaker. I'd had a surgery every three months since then. This would be my fourth.

  Harriet clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Let's get you checked in," she said as she typed. "Oh, you're seeing Dr. Tor," she said, looking over at Claire. They smiled at each other, their eyes alight with humor. Harriet looked back to her screen. "He's new," she told me, "and I think he's from the United Kingdoms."

  "I thought further East," Claire said. "Either way," she smiled at me. "He's a nice young doctor."

  I gave her a tight-lipped smile and nodded. Got it—I should date the nice new doctor. They had all my information on file, so it only took a moment before I was seated in one of the chairs waiting to see him.

  ****

  Minutes later a young doctor opened up the door, looking down at a tablet. "Darling Price?" he said, glancing up.

  His hair was jet black and pushed off his forehead straight back, as if he ran his fingers through it often. Large, almond-shaped hazel eyes complemented a strong nose. The doctor's skin was the color of wheat fields when they glow golden under the light of a setting sun. He smiled when he caught my eye. "I'm Dr. Issa Tor," he said, his accent slight and yet distinctly foreign. "Please, come with me."

  I followed him down a hallway. Each door had a plastic pocket on its face, many of which held clipboards. Watercolors hung between the doors. They were quiet landscapes: wetlands, a gentle wind bending the reeds, mountains covered in happy little tress.

  The doctor was slender and tall, narrow shoulders and hips, but very erect. He carried himself like he saved lives. Dr. Tor opened a door for me and waved a long arm toward an examination table. "Have a seat," he said.

  I climbed onto the padded bed, crinkling the paper that lay across it. Sitting at the edge, I could just rest the tips of my toes on the metal step. Dr. Tor sat on a low stool with three wheels at its base, allowing him to scoot around the small room. He started in front of the computer, entering passwords and reading warning boxes that sprung up on the screen. Once he had what he wanted he turned to me. "I see you've donated before," he said.

  I nodded.

  "Thank you, your marrow is very rare." His eyes stayed focused on the screen. "I don't see a family history here." He turned to me, his eyebrows raised. "You were adopted?"

  "Something like that," I said.

  He nodded slightly and I thought for a moment that he might ask me more questions, but then he just turned back to the screen.

  "What is the disease this time?" I asked looking down at my shoes.

  "Leukemia," he answered, his tone turning grave.

  "So a harvest," I said.

  "Yes," he answered, turning back to me. "Are you up for it?"

  I snapped my gaze up to his, my bangs tickling my eyelashes. I saw him through a curtain of hair. "Yes," I said. "I'll be fine."

  He pushed off with one of his long legs and rolled his stool across the bench to where a blood pressure cuff hung. He stood up and held it out to me. I offered my arm and he wrapped the band around my bicep. He pushed a button and the band began to expand. I could feel my pulse against my skin. Dr. Tor held his stethoscope up to his mouth and breathed on it. When the sensor touched my skin it was warm; his fingers did not brush me but I wanted them to. It was as if a war always brewed in me, between an intense need to be left alone and a hunger for touch.

  "Sounds good," he said, pulling his earbuds out and returning the stethoscope to his neck.

  "When?" I asked.

  He pulled the cuff off me, the Velcro rip satisfying in its many textures. The doctor sat back down in front of his computer and typed some more. It was one of those keyboards with the tall keys, and each stroke was a clack.

  "I'm hoping early next week; we've got all your paperwork, everything is matching up." He nodded at the computer, smiling, pleased with what was on the screen.

  "Good," I said.

  "Same address?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Phone number?"

  "Yup."

  "Emergency contact here is Megan Quick, is her number still the same?"

  I gripped the edge of the table, my hands pressing down hard into the padding. "She's gone," I said.

  "Moved?" he asked not taking his eyes off the screen. "We've got her as the same address as you but I can change that." He clacked some more on the keys.

  "Disappeared," I said, squeezing the word from between my lips, trying to keep the truth out of the air I breathed.

  He looked over from the computer then, his eyebrows raised in question.

  "She was a patient here," I said.

  His expression shifted from confused to embarrassed, his cheeks flushing and eyebrows lowering. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  "It's fine," I said. "I'll just get a cab home after."

  He looked up at me, his skin still flushed but eyes intent. "We don't recommend that."

  "I know the recommendations," I said through gritted teeth. "I know all about your recommendations." I bit down on my lip to stop the anger bubbling out of me. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, then blew it out through slightly parted lips, letting my jaw relax. "I'm sorry," I said. "Can we just finish up here? I've got to go."

  "Of course," he said, turning back to his computer. "You're not on any medications?" I shook my head no. He read something off the screen. "You used to be on antipsychotics, though?"

  "Not for a long time," I said. "Is that in the records there?" I had not taken any medication regularly since moving to Crescent City. It didn't make sense that Mercy Hospital would have my records from before I moved here.

  "Our system was recently upgraded ," Dr. Tor said. "It links to any other facility records with a matching name and citizen ID number."

  "Oh," I said. "I haven't taken anything like that in a long time. Would it matter if I was?"

  Dr. Tor shrugged. "It's not a problem either way."

  "I had a messed-up childhood," I blurted out. Dr. Tor nodded; he raised his eyebrows, encouraging me to continue. "They said I had false memories." I couldn't believe I was telling him this but the words seemed to spill out of my mouth. "I haven't hallucinated anything in a long time."

  "What did you hallucina
te?" He asked, leaning slightly forward on his stool, the metal creaking beneath him.

  "I–" a knock on the door interrupted me. Dr. Tor frowned. The door opened and Harriet walked in holding a file. I felt myself blushing, the color sneaking up my chest and running over my throat up to my cheeks. I couldn't believe I had been about to tell him about my delusions.

  Harriet passed the file to Dr. Tor. He gave her a weak smile and placed it on the desk next to his keyboard. I glanced at my watch, a gift from Megan, thin black leather band, elegant gold face; it was later than I thought. As Harriet began to exit I stood up, the paper crinkling from my movement.

  "I have to go," I said.

  Harriet closed the door behind her even as I reached for it. Dr. Tor stood quickly. "Please, Darling," Dr. Issa said. "I just need a few more minutes."

  "I'm sorry, but I'll be late for band practice. I have to go."

  "But you'll come back? For the surgery, I mean," he said.

  "Of course," I said, letting my eyes land on his for just a moment too long. His breath stopped and his pupils dilated. I turned, yanked open the door, and left.

  <<<<>>>>

  "How many of the people you donated to survived?"

  "They all came through the operation healthy."

  "Did you know their names?

  "Does it matter?"

  "We may be interested in tracking them down."

  She shook her head, holding my eyes for just a second. "None of them could have survived long after."

  "How did you?"

  "I always survive.”

  <<<<>>>>

  CHAPTER THREE

  I had to hurry to make it to band practice on time. If you don't have talent at least you can cultivate punctuality. Michael, our lead singer, was there sipping on a bottle of green tea. He nodded when I walked into the space and checked his watch. We'd been working together since Megan got really sick.

  Towards the end, about two months before she disappeared, Megan admitted she couldn't work anymore, and said that I had to find another band. I didn't want to play with anyone else ever, but we had bills to pay. It wasn't hard to find someone who would take me. Like a good moon, I reflected the light of my sun beautifully.

  The practice space belonged to our bassist, Emmanuel, who never showed up on time. He saw Megan and me play a couple of times, and I'm pretty sure that they had a thing for a minute. Emmanuel invited me to join Higgs and The Bosons. I had a feeling he was regretting it. It was clear from the look on Michael's face that he was.

  Andrew, who everyone called Dre, nodded to me as he walked in. He played the drums. Dre was a tall, lanky guy who looked good in a worn T-shirt with floppy hair that danced around his head when he played.

  I tuned my violin, listening to the instrument, asking it to speak to me. We used to make magic, Megan, me, and my fiddle. Now I just practiced. Nothing special ever seemed to come through me. This was just more evidence that without Megan I'd never make it.

  A great tiredness came over me then. I put the instrument down and leaned against the wall, trying not to lose it. Megan always stressed how important it was to have faith. But continuing to have faith that I'd ever see Megan again, dead or alive, was dangerously illogical. A searing anger ran through me suddenly. My cheeks flushed and I felt the beat of my heart banging. How could she leave me!

  "You okay?" I looked up and saw Emmanuel standing right in front of me. I nodded and swallowed. His black curls, untrimmed and wild, seemed like a crown. His eyes were the color of milk chocolate and framed by long black lashes. I couldn't look at them, so dropped my gaze to his perfectly formed pink lips. "Are you sure?" he asked.

  Tears welled in my eyes and I turned away. The hunger and exhaustion I'd felt earlier was overwhelming me. All I could hear was blood rushing in my ears. "Everyone's here, so let's get started," Michael announced.

  "Just a minute," Emmanuel said. He stepped closer and I felt his breath on my shoulder. "You're going to be okay, Darling." The sound of my name in his voice settled me. I turned, looking at him through my hair, like a black veil between us. He smiled gently at me, almost more with his eyes than any other part of him.

  "You ready to play?" Michael asked with an edge in his voice.

  Emmanuel nodded and I felt my head moving with his. He picked up his bass and hung the strap across his broad shoulders. I noticed the veins in his forearms as he laid his fingers on the strings.

  "Darling?" Michael said. "Uh, can we have the pleasure of your company today?"

  "Sure," I said, barely above a whisper.

  "Let's start with 'Drawn to You'," Michael said.

  Dre counted off 1, 2, 3, clacking his sticks together. Emmanuel laid down the bass while Dre thumped out the beat. The beginning of the song was sorrowful. The story of a man drawn toward the thing that hurts him most. I pulled my bow against the strings, eyes closed, trying to invoke the sounds that belonged there. The notes came, but without the feeling it was drab and flat.

  And that was how practice went. All the boys played with their hearts, and I struggled not to miss anything. We practiced our whole set several times, playing particular attention to the single we planned to open with at our next gig. Our new manager had set it up. A couple of important people were coming to see us. The scent of a record contract was in the air.

  As the last song ended Michael glared at me, his eyes slits of anger. "What the fuck?" he asked.

  "Hey!" Emmanuel said.

  Michael turned on him. "She's fucking it up, Emmanuel."

  Emmanuel, his bass still hanging from his shoulders, stepped in front of Michael, blocking my view of him. "Lay off her," he said quietly.

  "It was your idea to invite her, you fix her," Michael said and then he turned, picked up his green tea, and took a swig. He looked back at me and I felt the disappointment and anger coming off him. I sucked, and it pissed him off. I kept my eyes down, concentrating on the grain of my indigo jeans. He snorted and then I heard his loud footsteps and the door crashing open, then slamming shut.

  I put my fiddle back in her case and closed the clasps, too upset to even enjoy the clicking sound they made. As I stood, Emmanuel approached me, his hands in his pockets, his bass left in its stand. "You ever been to the Villa Relma cemetery?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "I've passed it."

  Villa Relma was one of the city's more popular cemeteries. Tourists flocked there to see the graves of some of the areas most notorious residents. It wasn't big but within the crumbling walls three mayors, a famous priestess, and one of the biggest movie stars of the last century were buried.

  "You want to go, with me? Now?" he asked, scrunching up his shoulders in a question.

  "Why?"

  "It's a place I've always found comforting."

  "Why?"

  He shrugged again, his head hanging down, and then he raised his eyes to mine. I didn't have time to look away before I'd locked onto him. I felt myself pulling toward him, sinking into those rich brown eyes. "So what do you say? Want to go?"

  "Okay," I said, taking a tentative step toward him. He broke away from my gaze and, reaching down, grabbed my violin case before turning to the exit. I followed him, tripping over myself a little, my head feeling light. I should eat something, I thought briefly, before following him out into the dying day.

  <<<<>>>>

  "So you didn't realize there was anything special about Emmanuel?"

  Darling smiled and dragged on her cigarette. She leaned her head back and blew a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "I knew he was special. I just didn't know how special."

  I felt stunned by this revelation. How had she been in the same room as him and not known what he was?

  "Remember that in the world I was raised in we didn't believe in beings like him." She paused, leaning forward to ash her cigarette. "At least, I didn't." She leaned back again and her eyes touched mine for just a moment. "I thought it stupid to believe in something like him."

  "But you w
ent with him to the cemetery."

  "I was desperate."

  <<<<>>>>

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We were not the only people visiting Villa Relma Cemetery as darkness fell. It was one of the last cool sunsets before the spring crept up on us, filling the air with heat and moisture. Already the days were becoming uncomfortable; soon the evenings would join them.

  Emmanuel knew his way around, and I followed him between the rows of mausoleums and crypts. Some were crumbling to the ground. The metal fences around them had collapsed under fallen chunks of the structures they were meant to protect. Spurts of growth, green and raggedy, shot from between the bricks, reaching toward the sun, making life work where it could.

  As we passed a simple crypt, the headstone impossible to read after so many rains, I stopped, placing my hands for a moment on the crooked fence surrounding it. The peeling black paint crackled under my touch.

  "Everything okay?" Emmanuel asked.

  "Sure," I said not taking my eyes off the sarcophagus, its lid tilted to the side. "What do you think happened?"

  Emmanuel stepped next to me and looked at the gravesite over my shoulder. He was almost a head taller than me. "What do you mean?" he asked. I felt his breath against the crown of my head.

  "What would make it buckle like that? Why would the lid be askew?"

  Emmanuel shrugged. "Storms, tree roots, construction, all sorts of stuff shifts the earth."

  I stared deeply into the dark space that the cockeyed lid exposed. Emmanuel touched my elbow. An electric spark shocked us both. I jumped away from him. "Sorry," he said, his hand hanging in the air where my elbow had just been.