by Z. Rider
Meanwhile, for the infected, they were moving on to radiation, chemo drugs. Anyone who was attacked—by anything, even if they woke up with a spider bite—was told to report to their nearest hospital, where they were then being transferred to Virginia, to the same hospital that had received the six-year-old girls, one infected, the other just brutally attacked.
The infected one was dead now. That news crawled over Dan’s skin. That could have been him. He could have gone to the hospital and died.
The regular patients had been transferred out, the place designated infection central. Armed guards patrolled the building, the parking lot.
In the quiet rehearsal room, Ray lit a cigarette, pushed back his hair, and clicked another YouTube video on his phone.
Reports of parasite sightings, the black creatures swooping through the night sky, increased daily, some from as far as Korea. How much of it was real and how much of it panic, there was no way of telling.
Outside Atlanta, a man shot his family and himself, leaving a note that said they were all infected, though the autopsy didn’t find any sign of it.
Homeless were beaten and killed, everyone assuming any unwashed person shuffling toward them must be a sucker. A terrifying video from a nightclub in Moscow, where three suckers had lost their shit all at once, had brought some of YouTube’s servers down under the traffic. If the video wasn’t a hoax, two uninfected were killed and eighteen were injured in the melee. One frame zoomed in on a sucker feasting on a young woman’s neck, her eyes open, her empty gaze looking beyond the camera.
Most of the commenters seemed to think getting bitten by a sucker made you a sucker, but Ray, sitting on the edge of the couch as the video played out on his phone, was proof that didn’t happen. When the video ended, he clenched the phone in his hand and reached for another cigarette.
Half the news reports were about the importance of staying calm, of leaving any area where you suspected someone might be infected. Call the authorities to handle it, they urged.
And stay in at night.
Dan rubbed his face, his elbows digging into his knees.
Jamie was using again, but they’d known that even before he stopped showing up. The fidgeting, the eye-contact avoidance, the inability to answer any question without fading into a mumble.
They kept going to their windowless room at Sound Block, where musicians milled in the halls, talking about the attacks. The two of them shut themselves in their carpet-walled room and wrote like their lives depended on it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Three weeks in, they actually had an album’s worth of songs, between what they’d written on the road and what they’d added at Sound Block. Bad Blood, Ray said they should call it. Dan, seated behind Jamie’s drum kit, clutching Jamie’s sticks, nodded.
Ray unslung his guitar. “I think this deserves a drink.” They had about a gigabyte worth of rough sounds and a pile of scrawled notes to sort through. The tracks needed titles—most were still named after the moods they were in when they got started, like “Fuck That Guy at Quiznos.” Some of the lyrics needed work, and they needed to get Jamie in, bring him up to speed so he could lay down the drum tracks once they got studio time organized. But, yeah, where they were at now—that deserved a fucking drink.
“What time is it?” Dan dropped the sticks in a bucket.
“Ten.”
“Night or morning?”
“We ain’t been here that long,” Ray said.
They’d arrived around one in the afternoon, after having been there till seven in the morning. It kind of blurred together. Dan stretched, his back popping. “Check the news.” Because he wasn’t going out there at night if those fuckers had made it near New Hampshire.
“South Carolina’s fucking nuts.” Ray, scrolling through his phone, whistled. “Guy in Tennessee shot his wife after she got bit by a dog.”
“Shot her?”
“He says these things are either’s Satan’s work or God’s punishment. I think he’s leaning toward ‘God’s punishment’ because he hinted she’s been sleeping around on him.”
“Some people will look for any excuse.” There’d been a lot of the God’s punishment talk: God’s punishment for letting gay people marry, for electing the antichrist to the White House, for our slothfulness, soullessness, and loose morals.
“The only shit going on our way is people overreacting,” Ray said. “So. Drink? ’Cause I could really use it now.”
Dan slipped into his jacket and put the collar up. “Drink.”
They went outside with their shoulders hunched, the late-November wind whistling down their collars. Dan glanced toward the sky. Lights blinked across it, a flight circling the airport. He was glad they didn’t have to fly right now. The security checks after 9/11 were nothing compared to passenger fear of being stuck in a can with someone who might attack at any moment.
“‘Out the Other Side,’” Ray said as he shoved his key in the Fury’s ignition. “What do you think? For the ‘eight-days-straight-of-rain’ song.”
“Sounds more hopeful than ‘Fuck This Fucking Shit We’re All Gonna Die.’”
“That one had a ring to it, though,” Ray said with a smile.
There was less traffic than usual—Elm Street was dead—but when they walked into McGarvey’s, the narrow bar was packed like a Japanese subway car. They eased through the throng, Ray pushing in toward the bar to order a couple beers. The televisions on the wall were tuned to news instead of ESPN. The one at the end had its volume up, but the voices around Dan overpowered it. From the visuals, it looked like the National Guard in the streets of Atlanta. He recognized the Olympic torch near the Varsity.
A woman bumped into him, apologizing before squeezing past. A guy easing his jacket back as he put his hand on his hip revealed the butt of a pistol. Ray held two beers above his shoulders as he made his way over. He lowered one to Dan, saying, “Jesus, don’t they know they’re all going to have to go out in the dark when they leave here?” He tried to make enough room for his elbow so he could take a drink.
“I guess they’re as dumb as us.” There were a lot of scarves and turtlenecks in the crowd, not just because winter was on its way. Dan wondered if they’d do any good. He figured he was kidding himself if he thought turning up his jacket collar was going to do much. But no confirmed sightings in New Hampshire, just panicked reports that turned out to be bats, stray cats, and, in one case, a homeless man rummaging through a trashcan.
The crowd shoved them together.
“It’s like being at a show.” Ray had to raise his voice to be heard. Someone else’s show, Dan took him to mean, since there was plenty of room up on stage at their own. Jesus, when was the last time they’d been to someone else’s show? If they got out of this, if things went back to normal, he’d make it a point to get to more shows.
The heat and tension made the beer taste extra good. He downed it in long swallows. Someone with a bellowing voice talked about holing up in a cabin up in Colebrook, bring his shotguns, his rifle, put up plenty of food. Sit this thing out. “Alaska,” someone else said, and the bellower’s response was, “No, you need to get closer to the equator. More sunlight. Fewer dark hours.” As if Colebrook was all that much closer to the equator.
He thought of Moss’s exit strategy and wondered how he, Deb, and the baby were doing.
Someone bumped him. He glanced back, caught sight of one of the TVs again, where draped bodies were being wheeled out on stretchers. The caption said something about a shooting. It looked like NYC. Maybe it could be a nice, normal gang shooting for a change.
“Jesus Christ,” Ray said. “What is wrong with people?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Dan said.
“I’m with you. We can get a six at the gas station.”
“I mean out of the city. Let’s just move the fuck in with my mom.” She lived in the middle of nowhere. And hey, it was farther south than Colebrook even.
“Faye probably wouldn
’t mind,” Ray said, and he had a point there. Dan knew it was hard on her that he was hardly ever around. She wouldn’t mind seeing more of him. And she liked Ray. She even liked Jamie—more, sometimes, than he liked him.
“So let’s do it,” Dan said.
“You go ahead.”
“And leave you here?” Manchester wasn’t a big city, but even before this fucking parasite thing it could be a sketchy place to live—where they were at least. The gas station across from the Dunkin’ Donuts on Dan’s corner was knocked over every few months. It wasn’t unusual to wake up to flashing lights outside his windows. Sometimes he’d come across a news item about a murder, only to discover it was within a few blocks of him. Once it had been attempted murder, right below him, where Janice and Lily lived now—attempted murder with a screwdriver, a drunken domestic dispute.
Ray’s section of town was better, but not a lot.
“I might move in with Buddy,” Ray said—which would be a move of all of a hundred yards. “They could use an extra guy around during this shit. Did I tell you Sarah’s pregnant?”
“No. Shit. Awesome. You know, except for the end of the world and all.”
“Right?”
His mother was going to kill him for this, but: “So bring them too.”
“Just what Faye needs,” Ray said. “A house full of people.”
“Come on, she loves Buddy and Sarah, and Jane’s the closest she’s ever getting to a grandkid.”
“Never say never.” Ray took another swig of beer.
“Not likely. Bring them to Deerfield.”
A guy knocked into Ray’s elbow, making him spill beer down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s a start.”
“In the meantime, can we get the fuck out of here?”
Dan set his bottle on the corner of someone’s table on the way out. He turned his collar up before they hit the sidewalk. Ray’s car was up the street, the two of them striding toward it, eying the sky. They stopped at the gas station across from Dunkin’, where the teenager behind the counter tugged his lip while he watched a video of what sounded like people yelling on his phone. Ray interrupted long enough to pay for a six-pack, then they were on their way again, winding up at Dan’s, hanging out in his living room, where they were insulated from the news, speculation, and panic.
The beer still tasted pretty good.
Ray sat on the floor, where the TV would be if Dan had one. In the apartment, life seemed like it could almost be normal. The guy next door was playing what sounded like a first-person-shooter, traffic was going by down on the street, Janice and Lily were probably asleep. If they were even there. He’d been around so little lately that they might have picked up and left, and he’d have had no idea.
Left for where, though? The way this thing was spreading—flying through Asia, making its way through the South and up the East Coast—it didn’t look out-runnable, not in the long run.
Ray said, “If I’d known the world was coming to an end, I’d have maybe tried to get laid first.”
Dan smiled a little, reminded of the last time he did get laid. “I wonder what Esmerelda thinks now? I’ve gone from being kind of a cool and mysterious vampire to just infested with fucking parasites.”
“She probably appreciates how civilly you went about taking care of your situation, instead of, you know, biting people’s faces off.” He tipped his beer up.
Hospitals had the infected on blood. The Red Cross was begging for donations. Dan considered giving himself—he probably owed that much—but did having the parasites out of your system mean you were actually clean? And could he give without having to admit that he’d been infected? What if they tested for it? Could they test for it? He didn’t have a whole lot of motivation to Google that. “You talk to anybody lately?” he asked. “Stick and them?”
“Had a talk with Moss just the other day,” Ray said.
“Is he heading up north?”
“Nope. Sandwich, Mass. Taking the baby to his parents’ house so he can try to look after everyone. He was glad to hear you’re better. Said it gave him some hope.”
Dan was tempted to push the issue of moving out of the city again, but he knew Ray. Give him another day or two to mull it over. He changed the topic to what they could do for the deluxe package they’d offer on the website. Red vinyl, obviously.
“You think?” Ray said. “I mean, what with all the panic?”
“Do you want to change the name then?” Dan said, because if red was too far, Bad Blood wasn’t going to sit well in a world where your neighbor might rip your face open with no warning.
“I don’t know.” Ray sat back. “I like the idea of white vinyl. You know, purity and hope and a new start.”
Dan smiled. Smiled and picked at the label on his beer.
“What?” Ray said.
“What about Come Through It All? You could read it as getting through all this shit, or you could read it as…you know. Either hopeful or dirty, later, when this shit is over. We should put a rosary on the label, make the beads look like those fucking parasites.”
“We always wanted to do cover art with a dug grave,” Ray said.
“That’s fucking morbid given the situation,” Dan said. It’d be a black-and-white photo. Dirt, hole, shovel. “We should go for it. Two Tons of Dirt: Come Through It All.”
“Well that was easy. I’m gonna go sneak a smoke.”
Dan had to get rid of some beer. They went through the doors at the same time—Ray to the back porch, Dan to the bathroom. He was just putting himself away when the kitchen door banged hard enough to rattle dishes on the counter. The lights in the kitchen went out.
Dan booked around the corner, his belt buckle swinging loose. A chill ran through his veins.
Ray had the kitchen blinds pinched open, his nose pressed to them.
“What’s going on?”
Ray ducked a little, like something was coming at him. “Put the lights out.”
Dan shut off the bathroom light, the lamp in the living room. He came up beside Ray in the dark, fingers thrumming. “What’s going on?”
“One of those things is out there.”
“Shit.”
He pinched the blinds open and took a look, breathing the sharp tang of smoke that came off Ray’s hair. All he saw was the darkness, the gray shape of a building beyond his apartment’s parking area. His breath hit the vinyl slats, his heart like a time bomb. “Did it get you?”
“No. There.”
He followed Ray’s finger.
Something dark batted a lit window down the street.
“Shit,” Dan said.
Ray pushed away to dig his phone out. He reported the sighting while Dan gave him updates: “Still going after that window… They turned their lights out… It just flew toward a streetlight… Coming back this way.” But it went right past the building. Dan shoved his shoulder against the door and tried to follow it with his eyes. He lost sight of it at the corner.
Ray was already heading to the windows in the first bedroom, already updating the operator he had on the line.
“I don’t see it.” Ray pulled back a curtain to peer out. Dan crossed into the other bedroom. “It’s over here, smacking a window on Granite.”
A car drove by, oblivious, a heavy bass beat thumping from it.
Shit. They were fucking here. He scrubbed sweat from his forehead. They were fucking here.
Lights across the street went out, one by one.
The thing took off again. Dan jogged to the living room. Ray’s boots clacked after him. He lost sight of it as it swooped behind a house, heading toward Second Street.
Ray stayed on the line, giving an update every thirty seconds or so—not that there was anything to update. The bat was gone.
Dan paced the living room, rubbing his palms on his jeans.
After a bit, the operator let Ray go. He stared at his phone. And Dan said, “You can’t go
out there.”
Ray didn’t say anything.
“Use the couch tonight.”
He nodded. His hand shook as he tapped the screen. He put the phone to his ear, his face pinched, waiting. “Everyone okay over there…? Yeah, we saw one of those fucking things over here by Dan’s. Just turn out the lights and stay in till morning. Yeah, I knew you would, but just in case. Don’t decide to drag the trash out to the fucking sidewalk or anything. Okay. Yeah, I’m staying here. I’ll stop by in the morning.” When he hung up, he said, “Jane’s asleep. Buddy and Sarah were getting ready for bed.”
“We can’t stay in Manchester,” Dan said. “The fucking parasites are only half the problem. This is going to be on the news in no time, if it’s not fucking already. People are going to go nuts. People had guns at McGarvey’s, Ray.”
“I know.”
“People are going to get infected.”
“I know.”
“Come to my mom’s. Bring Buddy and Sarah and Jane. You know she’s got the room for it.” His old bedroom, a guest room, a finished family room in the basement with a pullout couch. She had plenty of space, and not a lot in the way of neighbors. “I’m calling her now.” He needed to make sure she was okay anyway. Needed to let her know he was okay before the breaking news aired. He could see her sitting in bed in the dark, watching the television on her dresser. A news report was probably interrupting her show right the fuck now—or would be soon.
As the line rang, he said, “We’ll bring all my food, all your food, all Buddy and Sarah’s food. We’ll throw a fridge on the back of his fucking truck if we have to. Hey, Mom.”
“Dan. Did you hear Richmond and Philly have instituted curfews?”
“I guess they’re getting hit pretty bad.” At least she hadn’t heard yet.
“But how do they enforce it? What police officer in his right mind is going to get out of his patrol car to shoo someone into a building after dark?”
The problem with her not hearing yet was that it left it up to him to say it. He pressed his hand to his forehead. “Mom. They’re here.”
