Suckers

by Z. Rider

  “Ray,” he whispered quickly.

  A heel came down in the dark in front of the chair, hard and unsteady, making the floor vibrate under Dan’s boots.

  “Ray.”

  Ray lumbered into the doorway, face like a sliver of moon in what light the kitchen offered. His shin banged the front of the chair, jolting in Dan’s hands. He clutched it harder, his muscles cocked, ready to jump. Ray moaned. His hands reached in the air like a blind man’s.

  His shin knocked the chair again. Dan did the only thing he could think of, jerking the chair back, then shoving it forward, hard. The shove sent Ray stumbling backward. He tripped over his own foot, landed hard on the wood floor. Dan reflexively thought of the downstairs neighbors—but he hadn’t heard anyone else in the building since he’d arrived.

  He jerked the chair out of the way and lunged for the door, stretching inside of the bedroom, right over Ray, to grasp the knob.

  Ray gripped his calf, his thin fingers digging into his leg. He hung on to the knob and the doorjamb, shaking his foot, trying to get free.

  Ray’s fingers dragged at him. His mouth opened, his teeth flashing in what little light the room held.

  Dan kicked out, knocking Ray in the chest, jarring his teeth shut with a click. Ray’s mouth popped right back open, lunging for him.

  With a grunt, Dan kicked, swift and sharp, then yanked his leg back, wrenching it free of Ray’s grip.

  Ray’s teeth snapped together.

  “Fuck.” He needed to get Ray out of the way of the fucking door. He searched the darkness, keeping one eye toward Ray while he tried to think, fast. The closest thing at hand was the chair. With one last kick at Ray, he scrambled back, grabbed the chair, and put it between them. Digging his boots against the floor, he steamrolled Ray backward with the chair. Ray’s sweatpants slid over the hardwood. His fingers clawed at the chair’s seat cushion.

  There was a snap—Ray’s fingernail breaking as he tried to haul himself up by the chair’s wooden arm.

  Dan braced his feet and gave one more heave, cramming Ray between the chair and the bed. He backpedaled, boot heels clicking. He grasped the knob and hauled the door shut with a sharp clap.

  He sank to the floor with his back against the door, clutching the knob.

  The legs of the chair slid behind the door.

  Hard knocks came across the floor, like knees hitting it.

  Ray’s fingernails scraped wood just behind Dan’s head.

  The knob jiggled.

  Dan gripped harder.

  Ray made a croaking noise that drew the skin behind Dan’s ears tight. Ray’s palms made the door bounce against Dan’s skull.

  His heart thudded into his breastbone, like one of the fucking things out there throwing itself against a window.

  A parasite smacked the kitchen window like a rotten pumpkin, rattling the glass, making Dan push his back against the door and grip the knob tighter.

  Something pushed under the door, poking him. He slid sideways enough to put a hand on it. The tips of Ray’s fingers. Then they were gone. Ray hit the door again, higher, then higher, getting back to his feet. The doorknob twisted. Dan held on with both hands, hanging his weight off it.

  It went on for long minutes—Ray, not even really Ray, on the other side of the door. Dan’s temples ached from gritting his teeth. His thigh muscles screamed from holding his crouch. His knuckles felt like they’d locked up, gripping the doorknob so long.

  A thud shook the floor.

  He held his breath, listening in the silence, mind racing. He could grab a knife from the drawer, make one small fucking cut in his own skin, and end the whole thing. Force Ray to give up and go to Vermont.

  He pressed his forehead against his fists, still clutching the knob. Ray would never forgive him. Maybe if this whole problem got sorted out and things got back to normal, he’d get over it. But would he ever trust him again? Deep down? Or would he go to his grave resenting him for not letting him play his conviction out?

  However much he wanted to make Ray do what they knew worked, he couldn’t, not without his consent, because however much Ray might have wanted to take him to the hospital, he never had—not as long as Dan was saying he didn’t want to go. Even when Dan had been ready to give up and go in, Ray had kept his eye on the ball, come up with another plan. Got him through the fucking thing.

  He owed him that.

  His knees creaked as he pulled to his feet. There had to be something in the drawers. He hoped there was something in the drawers, because if he wasn’t going to go against Ray’s wishes, and if he wasn’t going to leave and let Ray deal with it by himself, then he had to do his part to make it work.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Ray came to violently, teeth snapping, body jerking. Dan backed away from the end of the bed, wrapping his hand around the broomstick he’d armed himself with.

  The electrical cords held.

  Dan rubbed his jaw with the side of his arm, the bruise from the flying elbow he’d caught tingling. At least he hadn’t fucking gotten bit.

  Ray’s arms were above his head, wrists tied together to the headboard. Dan wasn’t sure whether he’d needed to tie Ray’s ankles to the footboard, but better safe than sorry.

  He took a few slow steps around the bed, watching his best friend snap and growl like something from a horror movie. He clutched the edge of the dresser, something solid to hold on to while his palm throbbed around the broom’s handle. Is this what it had been like when their places had been reversed, when Dan had been the one attacking? Or was it worse now because they knew what was fucking going on.

  He wondered if this was all he had left of Ray now. If Ray wasn’t going to take any blood, was it just going to be this, until it was over?

  If it gets worse—if he starts to look like it’s killing him… Fuck consent. Ray would hate him, but he’d be alive to do it.

  Ray lost consciousness again.

  Dan turned on the overhead light long enough to make sure Ray’s stomach still dipped and rose with short, shallow breaths, then turned it back off.

  The chair was uncomfortable as ever.

  Dan laid the broomstick across his lap and got no sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  He heard the footsteps long before they got to the door. He stopped stirring the full-strength cup of coffee he’d just poured. The windows were still covered, sunlight peeking weakly around the edges of the blankets.

  The storm door creaked open. Knuckles tapped the door.

  He let the spoon drop against the side of the mug and dragged a hand through his hair as he headed across the room, not looking forward to the confrontation with Buddy he knew was coming.

  He recognized his mom’s hair through the window before anything else. Putting a hand against the door, he peered out at her.

  “Danny,” she said.

  “Mom. What are you doing here?”

  “I needed to see you.”

  “Mom, I heard. I’m so sorry.”

  “We’re leaving,” she said. “Can you let me in?”

  He glanced toward the bedroom. Turned back to her. Infected or not, she was still at risk from Ray. He had faith in the electrical cords, but not a lot. Who knew how hard Ray’d fight with two bags of blood in the apartment. He said, “Ray’s in a pretty bad way. I don’t want to risk it. Is anyone with you?”

  “Rich is down in the car. Buddy’s going through their place for anything that might be useful to bring.”

  The glass made her look watery. Faded. He pressed his fingers to it. “Where’s Jamie?”

  “He hopped out the back of the truck when we pulled up and headed on his own way. He doesn’t want to go to Vermont. I think after—I think after the thing got in the house, he gave up.”

  He was probably looking to get wasted, take himself to where it didn’t matter what happened outside of his high. He thought of trying to catch up with him—Ray might actually like to see him there. It’d make him feel like ever
ything was the way he always thought it should be, the whole band together. But he couldn’t risk leaving Ray just to drag Jamie up to the apartment. What if Ray got free while he was gone? What if the place got torched? What if… Jesus, who knew? Anything could go wrong.

  “You look bedraggled,” his mom said.

  “It’s been a rough night.”

  “There’s still time to come with us. I wish you were coming with us.” She pressed her hand to the glass, on the other side of his.

  “Ray’s not in any condition to travel.”

  Tears brimmed, but she gave a sniff and straightened her back. “Maybe you can come later. When he’s better.” But they both knew she was saying when he’s gone, or at least he knew it.

  He pressed the heel of his hand to the corner of his eye. “Yeah, we’ll do that.”

  “I love you, Dan.”

  “I love you too. Drive safe. Don’t take any wooden nickels.” He gave her a crooked smile that she matched with one of her own. She dabbed her eyes as she turned away. “You call me,” she said, stopping halfway across the landing. “Keep trying till you get through.”

  “You too.”

  She rounded the landing. He pressed his forehead against the door, eyes squeezed shut, something trying to break free from his chest and follow her, be there to take care of her. But he had other things to see to.

  † † †

  When he came back to the bedroom, Ray said, “Were you talking to someone?” his voice scratchy and soft.

  Dan hadn’t bothered raising the shades when he’d gotten up; the room was dim and gloomy. Ray was a lump on the bed, his dark eyes feverish, his face drained.

  Dan didn’t want to get too close and set off another attack—lose Ray to another bout of unconsciousness. “It was my mom, checking up on us.”

  “Right.”

  Ray tugged at the cords. “Nice idea,” he said. “Wish I’d thought of it.” He tried to pull an ankle up the bed. The cords held it back. He lowered his head to the pillow. “This fucking headache, though. You have no idea.”

  No, he probably didn’t. “Other than that, how’re you feeling?”

  “On the edge of losing it.” He wrapped his fingers around a bar in the headboard, tilting his chin up. When he settled back down he said, “I didn’t get you, did I?”

  “You sure tried.”

  “I guess I’d feel a whole lot better right now if I had, right?”

  “Anything I can get you?”

  “A bucket to piss in and a glass of water?”

  “How about a bottle of water? I found one in the trash and washed it out. I figured it’d be easier to handle than a glass. Straws would be even better, but you’re apparently not a fan.”

  Ray laughed, a soft chh that ended with a grimace.

  “I don’t know what we’re gonna do about the other situation.” He hated to tell him he was probably going to have to piss the bed.

  He almost made it with the water before the whites of Ray’s eyes teemed with squirming darkness, and Ray’s body fought the cords with everything it had. His neck corded as it strained. His teeth snapped. Dan set the bottle between the pillow and headboard and walked out of the room. Walked all the way to the back door and put his hand against it, head bent, heart thudding like a drum.

  † † †

  The back room was silent when heavy footsteps trudged up the steps. Dan held his breath, hoping they’d stop at the apartment next door. Their storm door rattled open. A sharp rap came. He pushed up from the chair.

  “Can I see him?” Buddy held a hand above his eyes to shield the glare of the sun from the windowpanes on the kitchen door.

  Dan shook his head.

  “Danny, it’s my fucking brother. We’re leaving.” He glanced toward the street, as if speaking the word had reminded him his wife and daughter were down there, out of sight.

  “He’s not good, Buddy. He’s dangerous right now.”

  “You’re in there with him.”

  “I don’t have Jane and another kid on the way.”

  Buddy rattled the doorknob. The deadbolt was set: he’d have to break in to get in. Dan stepped closer. “As soon as he’s better, we’ll come up there. As soon as he can make the trip.”

  “Fuck. Is he taking blood yet?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus. Give him some fucking blood. Do you want Sarah to draw some? Just fucking force it on him. This is stupid.”

  “I can handle it,” Dan said, not wanting to leave Ray so he could get his blood drawn, not wanting to let anyone in there to do it. Not wanting to accept a container of anyone else’s blood either—they’d need that themselves, with two of them infected.

  “Give him fucking blood,” Buddy said again.

  Dan nodded.

  Buddy looked like he had a hundred things to say. Finally he shook his head, looked off toward the street again. “This is some shit, isn’t it? Fuck.” He clenched his hands. Turned his back and swore again. Without turning to look at Dan, he said, “You guys take care of yourselves. We’ll be looking for you.” He glanced back. “If we get up there and find out it’s not what we thought, we’ll try to get a call through, or you’ll see us back here in a few days.”

  “You guys be careful.”

  Buddy shook his head again, rueful. Started to walk away. Pulled himself back for one more thing, his fingertips pressed to the window in the door: “Tell that asshole I love him, okay?”

  † † †

  Hours passed. Dan puttered in the kitchen, watched a silent TV, strummed one of Ray’s guitars.

  As it got late, he stared out the window, until it was time to pull the shades again.

  Unplugging the TV, he carried it into the bedroom, where he skirted the edge of the room, making Ray twitch and jerk but not come back to consciousness. He plugged it in and turned it on, volume off. Turned on a portable CD player because music was less horrible to fill his ears with than the news reports. He sat in the uncomfortable chair watching the world fall apart while Black Pistol Fire provided the soundtrack.

  Doctors in lab coats got him to unmute the TV. He sat forward with the remote dangling in his fingers, hoping for hope.

  All he got was, “They’re more virulent than we at first thought,” and before the doctor could explain why, he had the sound off again, preferring Kevin McKeown singing about getting his wheel greased to more shitty news.

  † † †

  Ray’s breathing had a wheeze to it, a soft, high whistle. He lifted his head slowly to see what the glow was.

  “There should be water in reach,” Dan said.

  Ray let his head drop back down. In the flickering of the TV, he licked his lips. “What’re they saying?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “Figured.”

  “How are you doing?” Dan asked.

  “Feel like there’s a tractor trailer driving inside my skull. How are we doing?”

  “We’ve got this,” Dan said. “We’ll get through this. You let me know if you change your mind about feeding them, though. Say the fucking word and I’ll do it.” He thumbed the corner of his eye, flicking away a hot tear he hadn’t expected. His throat hurt, like something sharp had gone sideways down it and gotten stuck. He stared hard at the TV, not seeing a thing.

  “Fuck those fuckers,” Ray whispered.

  Dan told him the others were on their way. Left out what Buddy’d told him to say because his throat clamped hot around it when it tried to get it out. He left the room on the pretense of having to piss and squeezed silent tears from his eyes while he gripped the porcelain sink.

  † † †

  Ray fell asleep on his own, no fit.

  The things outside hit the windows, and Dan turned the music up, one eye on Ray’s face to make sure it didn’t flinch with discomfort. Blues were out of the question. He pulled up stuff they’d listened to in high school—the Violent Femmes, Man Made Murder. He found an old NIN CD half lodged behind the dresser—his, probably
, from forever ago—and put that on for a while.

  Then he just wanted silence.

  He took himself to the bathroom. As he pissed, he realized he could shower now too. Ray wasn’t going to be sneaking out, even if he got untied.

  Voices jerked his head toward the kitchen door.

  The storm door creaked open.

  He zipped up and crept across the room.

  The doorknob rattled.

  Something scraped the wood on the other side of the door.

  He backed up a few steps and reached through the bedroom doorway for the broomstick. Lot of fucking help that was going to be. Part of him wanted to announce there was someone infected in here—maybe that’d scare them off. But the bomb at the hospital… A sucker in here might scare them in all the wrong way. And Jesus, it was dark out. Whoever was out there was infected too.

  What if it’s Jamie?

  Hushed voices exchanged quick words. Dan pushed up beside the door, just out of sight.

  Metal scraped the metal of the lock.

  “Hey,” he said, sharp and low at the crack at the edge of the door, keenly aware that strangers were six inches from his face, separated by a few inches of wood.

  The sounds stopped.

  He closed his eyes for a second, praying this was all it would take. If Jamie were out there, he’d say something. He wouldn’t just keep trying to break in. “We’ve got people in here and we’re about out of food, but we’ve got plenty of bullets. You open that door, we’ll fire first, ask questions later.” What he wouldn’t give for a gun to loudly cock right now.

  The scuffling of boots sounded. The storm door fell shut.

  He lowered the broomstick and sagged against the wall. He had no idea what he’d have done if they’d called his bluff with Ray in the other room the way he was. Dragging a dining chair over, he propped its back underneath the doorknob. It wasn’t any more secure than the deadbolt, but at least he felt he’d done something.

  When he went back to his seat in the bedroom, he set the broomstick across his lap and listened to Ray’s slow, wheezy breaths in the darkness.