Chapter 27 #2
“I ran. I ran right out the exit and never looked back. I left every single one of my patients, every single one of my coworkers, every single person on my team. I left them to fend for themselves. And if I wouldn’t have run .
. . I’d be dead right now. I was lucky that I only came away with this.
” I lift my arm, showing him the scar again.
The jagged curve of someone’s teeth, like a dental mold etched into my skin that’s softened over into a paler spot, a reverse tattoo, taking the color with it.
Blake holds his bite mark up next to mine. They’re in nearly identical spots on our arms, and he looks between them both, the gravity of the situation sinking in.
“I know you’re probably right. But I’m still not proud of what I did. I didn’t even try to save him.”
“Hey.” I squeeze his arm to jar him out of his wallowing. “You don’t have to be proud of what you did. But you do have to give yourself grace. There’s no changing what happened, so you just need to be okay with it.”
He stares back at me and nods, not saying anything. I’m sure he won’t be able to easily forgive himself, but in a few minutes, it might not be a problem he ever has to deal with again. Blake tilts his head to the side to read the time on his watch. “Only five minutes left.”
“Would you prefer to be alone for this?”
“I want you to stay.”
“Okay then. I’ll stay.”
Silence fills the room for what feels like an eternity, the minutes melting away as slowly as an ice cube in a refrigerator, just a couple of degrees above where it could hold itself together forever. Blake takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
“Wait,” I say.
His eyes burst back open. “What!?”
“You said your friend lost his memories, right?” My fingers bounce back and forth in front of me like I’m visualizing my thoughts dancing around in my head.
“Yeah.”
“So he was a Nome.”
“I guess so.”
“But he was a biter when you saw him in the hospital on our run.” I’m pacing in front of the cell, trying to connect the dots in this scenario, more talking out loud than I am to Blake.
“I mean, obviously. That’s how I got this.” Blake holds up his arm, as if I need a reminder as to what happened.
“Hmmm.” I start massaging my scalp, prodding my brain to work out what I think I’ve come to realize.
“What is it? What are you thinking?”
“I saw patients turn into Nomes, and I saw patients turn into biters, but the biters weren’t Nomes, or vice versa.”
“What’s your point? We know that both things can happen.”
“Right, but what if when a Nome is bit, they turn into a biter? No matter what. Like, the additional infection instantly overloads the system and deteriorates whatever’s left, devolving them even further.” I stop pacing, letting the idea settle in.
“Have you ever seen that happen before?”
“No. Anytime I would see a Nome get attacked in the city, it was always by multiple biters at once. They would be ripped apart and eaten on the spot, so they never had a chance to turn.” A light bulb goes off in my head.
The herd of biters that came and attacked the compound—it never made any sense to me.
That many turning into biters? It’s statistically impossible.
“The bus!” I yell out.
“What about the bus?” Blake isn’t following, and I can tell my ramblings are more confusing than they are helpful.
“If the bus had been full of regular people and someone turned, the biter would have just attacked as many as it possibly could while all the others fled. It would be days before the survivors turned, and they’d be scattered all over the place.
But”—I begin pacing again—“if the bus were attacked by multiple biters, it’d be just as chaotic with people fleeing and dying. Still impossible. Unless . . .”
I run to the cell and grip the bars, pressing my face right in between two of them.
“What if that bus was full of Nomes and only one biter? The Nomes would be so confused by the attack. They’d be trying to flee, toppling over one another, especially if the bus door was locked.
Based on what happened to your friend, all the Nomes would turn into biters. ”
Blake tilts his head. “But how would all the Nomes get on the bus? And who was driving?”
“Someone must have been transporting them on purpose, and something went very wrong.”
“Who would want a bunch of random Nomes?”
“Someone who wants bait or free labor or an army.” The realities that they haven’t seen out here are astounding, a mixture of a curse and a blessing.
On the one hand, they haven’t witnessed Nomes being used as slaves for labor and personal enjoyment or prodded around to lure others out.
That also means they aren’t prepared. But trouble is coming, whether we like it or not. I can feel it in my bones.
I turn to Blake, almost forgetting he’s still in the room. His forehead is beading with sweat, glistening from the overhead light in the cell. He swallows hard, far too often for what is normal, as he stares down at his watch.
“Are you okay?” I soften my tone, realizing that all my hypothesizing is not doing anything to help take his mind off what might happen.
“I’m fine.” He wipes the sweat away reflexively, not pulling his gaze from his watch. “I just have a headache.” Blake taps the watch face, taking in deep, heavy breaths, one after another. “About a minute now.”
“It’s gonna be okay.” I force a smile, trying to remain positive, but he still won’t break from the staring contest he has going with his watch.
I return to the cell door, reaching through the bars. His hand is close enough to grab, so I draw him toward me, breaking his trance.
Blake stands up straight, hesitating, like he wants to go back to his way of doing things, but instead, he pivots his weight and comes closer, lacing his fingers through mine.
“Thank you,” is all he says, and I only smile in response at first, not knowing any words that could possibly comfort him in this moment, but then it dawns on me. If I were about to lose all my memories, what is the thing I would want most?
“What’s your best memory?” I ask, watching as he looks at me like I asked him a pop question. A mixture of terror at revealing a response, coupled with the uncertainty of it not being the right one.
“What? Why?” he asks, clearly unsure whether this is something genuine and real between us, something that’ll give him even the smallest semblance of relief prior to the numbers on his watch face switching over, or if I’m just using this moment for my own enjoyment, a private torture show for one.
“In case you lose them.”
He looks down the bridge of his nose, quickly wiping away a tear that formed and was ready to fall. I can see the inner workings of him searching for the memory, the nerve endings poring through his hard drive like two fingers dancing along the contents of a filing cabinet.
“So I can remind you of your favorite one.”
A smile slowly spreads across his face, a sense of relief relaxing the veins near his temples. “That’s easy,” he says.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s you.”
The warmth of excitement from the increased blood flow is making him glow in a nervous hue, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s anticipating his own teasing punch line or if it’s because he’s letting his true feelings show.
“Wow,” I say in minor shock of his admission. “I didn’t realize there was a fourth outcome from the infection.”
“Huh?” His face instantly loses its glow, a coal removed from the fire, thrown into a frigid lake. “What do you mean?” His tone is now clinical, like a patient asking a doctor the definition of a medical term.
“Growing new organs. It would be an incredible medical anomaly, but I guess it’s possible, since you just grew a heart.”
He shakes his head, but the smile on his face betrays any sense of anger or annoyance. “Oh, come on. I already had a heart.”
“Where?” I tease, reaching through the bar and poking at his hard pecs.
He laughs and grabs my hand, taking it in his. He looks down at me with the laser focus of someone being cross-examined in court. “I’m serious, Casey. And you’d better remind me if I forget.”
I don’t question the veracity of his statement and instead agree, not wanting to deny his potentially final conscious request. “I will.”
He releases my hand and lets his body fall back into the wall, slinking down to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. My brows knit together with worry. I crouch, watching him.
Blake takes a deep breath through his nose, his lips shifting in such small movements that I can’t make out what he’s saying, but by the rhythm and pattern, I can guess he’s counting. And then he stops. His forehead falls between his knees, and he goes still.
“Blake?” I say, needing to know whether he’s okay. “Blake?”
Finally, he lifts his head from its resting spot and leans it back against the wall, rolling his head up and down like he’s giving himself a scalp massage.
He pushes off the cinder block and stands, looking around the cell like he’s getting his bearings.
When his gaze lands on me, his face twists up, not out of fear or shock, but out of curiosity.
“Blake?” I reach my hand through the bars, stretching it as far as I can, my fingers spread wide, trying to claw the air for just an extra inch. He takes my hand in his, shaking it up and down like we’re associates in a boardroom.
“Blake, are you all right?”
“Who are you?” he asks.
My heart plummets down into my stomach, splashing acid everywhere as a burn begins to radiate throughout my core. I let go of his hand and stumble back in shock.
“Where am I?” he asks, peering up at the ceiling and turning in circles, his steps choppy and frantic.
I can sense that panic is about to set in.
I’ve seen this with many dementia patients or people coming out of heavy narcotics, and despite how heartbroken I am, I need to be there for him, to keep him calm.
His entire life just changed for the worse, and I’m gutted that it happened to coincide with me realizing that I actually care about him.
“What am I doing in here!?” He looks like a fish trying to frantically find its way out of an aquarium, swimming beneath the water of my tears.
“I’m so sorry, Blake,” I whisper as I wipe my tears away, not wanting to worry him any more than he probably is.
I walk to his cell, calling out his name until he settles down enough to focus on me and what I’m trying to tell him.
“I’m so, so sorry, Blake,” I say, unable to hold back my sadness any longer.
“Who’s Blake?” he asks.
I reach my hands out and he grabs them reflexively, holding me by the wrists like he isn’t sure what to do with these “things” that just entered his space.
I glance down at my feet. My tears sit atop the concrete floor, unable to penetrate the uniform, smooth surface, no different from the effect they have on the husk of the man standing before me.
Blake lets go of my wrists and collapses to the floor. A burst of laughter erupts from his mouth and rocks through me, like a sound wave sent from a bullhorn. He rocks back and forth, grabbing his sides, chuckling even louder.
“You fucking dick!”
“You should have seen your face!” He points at me, howling in amusement.
I look around for something to throw at him.
Spotting my breakfast plate, I grab the hash brown patty from it and tomahawk it through the bars, hitting him square in the face.
Pieces fly around the cell and a grease spot now glistens on his slightly reddened skin, but it does little to stop his fit of joy.
“By the way, Pearson, I accept your apology.” He’s still beaming, tickled with joy at his prank.
I squeeze my eyes tight, shaking my head in tiny tremors. “I wasn’t apologizing to you for anything. I was apologizing for your situation.”
“That’s not how I took it.” He relaxes into a smug state of bliss, as if every word of this exchange is like a drop of honey hitting his tongue.
“Whatever.” I turn on my heel and head for the door, no longer feeling the need to watch over him . . . at least for now.
“Where are you going?” he calls out, the coolness of his voice now replaced with a mix of genuine curiosity and concern that his plaything is leaving early.
“To inform everyone that you’re not a Nome but that you are, in fact, still an asshole.”