Dead and Beloved (5 page)

“I'm feeling better,” I tell her. I take a deep breath and smile again. “You're all wet.”

“I've been swimming.” She glances over her shoulder again. “You need to hide, or move. My parents will be home soon.”

As I stand, she grabs my arm, gripping where the flesh has been working loose. Searing pain shoots up to my shoulder. I wince but don’t mention the pain.

“Are you okay?”

“It's been a tough week,” I answer.

She leads me behind a large thorny bush. “I know the feeling.” She's almost whispering now, as if regret is covering her words.

“You saw the picture?”

Jessica nods. She stares at me, examining me, and then touches my cheek with her finger. “You shouldn't be here. It's dangerous.” She glances around nervously as headlights break the darkness. The car passes and she lets out a relieved sigh. “It’s great that you came to see me, but you need to leave. You can't be here.”

Her voice is shaking and I don't understand why. “I didn't come to cause problems,” I say.

There's terror in her voice now. “There could be. I can't be here with you. You can't be here. If someone sees us.”

“What? Why?” I'm almost yelling.

Jessica grabs my face and shoves me down. “This isn't a game, Ryan. You're in real danger here. I'm in danger.”

“Why?” I ask again. “What's going to happen?” I throw my arms into the air. “I've already been humiliated on the news. I live in a hospital. Everything I do is monitored and measured. When I finally get alone with a girl, my picture is spread all over the world.”

“Our picture.” Jessica is glaring at me and her voice is low, like a growl. “You think you're the only one suffering. Did you ask how I was doing? Did you think that I enjoy seeing my picture plastered everywhere?” She shoves my arm. “I can't go places or do anything. I can't even get online without my parents checking in on me.”

I'm ashamed for a moment. She's right. “That's why we need to see each other,” I say. “To talk about what's going on. To understand.”

“I want to, Ryan. Believe me, I want to. But not here. You don't know.”

Lights interrupt us and when their source, a dark BMW, pulls into the driveway, Jessica gasps.

“You need to go, Ryan.” There are tears in her eyes. “Go now.” She wipes her hair with the towel and scrambles to the garage where the car has entered.

I want to say goodbye, or wave at least, but I don't get the chance. Jessica doesn't turn back to look. I stay hidden in the bushes and listen for a moment, but the garage door
closes, filling the yard with silence.

I'm not sure what to do, or think. All week I had wanted to talk to Jessica, but this wasn't what I had expected. It was like she was scolding me. And the terror in her eyes. Why was she so afraid? Without an answer to my question, I slip into the night to return home.

Sundays at the hospital are the worst. No sports, no activities, only movies and endless examinations. One by one, all of the patients on my floor are taken into the Scream Room for a thorough inspection. I'm given shots, my blood is taken and pressed into a machine for analysis, and my vitals revisited. Worst of all, my wounds are scrubbed.

When I first caught the Virus, all my muscles seemed to catch fire. I felt like I was burning all the time. When my sister died, she had screamed until her lungs collapsed, pleading to put out the flames in her legs and arms. A month later, I found out exactly what she meant. I craved death then, hoping it would end my suffering. Instead, my dad brought to the hospital. Every time the nurses scrub my open wounds, I long for death again and sometimes even plead for it. No life is worth this much agony, not for anyone.

When they're finished with the Sunday scrubs, the nurses are given a couple hours off. It's hard for them, too. One nurse cries every time she has to scrub me and then apologizes immediately afterward. I feel sorry for them, but I don't thank them for their empathy. The pain I feel is too horrible to allow that.

Today I’m doused in Second Skin and additional treatments are applied to my neck and arm. There's a lot of talk about my arm, but it's mostly in whispers. They aren't necessary, though. I know I'm getting worse. I can feel it. There was never a cure for the Virus, only a way to live longer and avoid the fate the other hundred million people like me have already suffered.

Old Seinfeld reruns are showing on a projection screen in the gym. After my scrubbing I don't feel like laughing, so I wander to the lounge to watch basketball on television. The game's not very good, but I prefer it to the loneliness of my room. Halfway into the third quarter, the game is interrupted by a special report. Someone announces that a cure has been found.

Everyone scrambles for a closer view of the screen.

“What couldn't be years ago, now appears to be reality,” says the man in a suit and tie. “Preliminary tests indicate a complete denial of exposure to the Breytazine Virus.”

I lean forward, completely focused.

“We go now downtown.”

A woman appears on the screen near a building I've never seen before, but the mountains are undeniably local. “Thank you, Mark,” she says. “It's in this research lab where a group of scientists may have reached a breakthrough in the fight against Breytazine. Headed by Dr. John Snow, they claim to be able to fight intrusion of Breytazine into the human system.” She turns to a man next to her. “Doctor, what exactly have you achieved?”

“Well, it's been pretty exciting around here the past few days,” answers the man. “We injected Breytazine into our test subjects, who've already been treated with our formula. None of the hosts accepted the Virus.”

“So their bodies reject the effects?”

“Not only the effects.” The man smiles. “The Virus in its entirety. One hundred percent denial.”

The woman pauses for a moment, wipes her eyes, and then turns back to Dr. Snow. “So those who take the serum will not become infected?”

“That's right.”

“Wow. That's the news we've waited years for.” The woman is emotional and the camera focuses on the doctor for a moment. She waves the camera back to her. “It's all right. I'll be okay.” She takes a deep breath. “What about those already infected? Will this help them?”

Dr. Snow shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Our treatment has no effect on the dying. Our goal from the beginning has been to protect those we can from Breytazine. And we've done that.”

The lounge erupts. “What about us? Turn it off. This is garbage.”

As the guard in the lounge scrambles toward the television, a girl appears on the screen.

“Wait!” I yell. “Don't change it.”

There, in front of the entire world is Jessica, standing next to the man. Dr. Snow. I gasp as I realize the connection.

“Who is this young lady?” asks the reporter.

“This is my daughter,” announces the doctor.

I'm staring, caught in a wave of emotion. I'm angry, sad, and heartbroken all at once.

“I did this for her,” says Dr. Snow. He wipes his brow. “I don't want our children to suffer the fate that so many others have. I want them to know life, to know freedom, to know love.”

I feel like I've been punched in the gut and pushed down an endless well. The room spins, my stomach churns, and I lose my lunch onto the tile.

“Get him out of here,” one of the nurses yells as she rushes toward a bio-hazard kit.

I'm carried into the Scream Room, where I'm prepped and cleaned and scrubbed all over again. I vomit a few more times, but I don't care. I stop fighting the impulse despite the nurses' pleas. The past seven days suddenly make sense to me and there's nothing left to live for.

I miss school the next day, a result of more tests and drugs at the hospital. All I can think about is how life betrayed me; how it lifted me up with hope that something good could come from my condition before dropping me to suffer the infinite cruelty of fate.

Her father. Of all people, Jessica's father has developed the drug that makes me more isolated from the world than ever. He never wanted to cure anyone like me. I had heard it from his mouth. He wanted his daughter to have a normal life. I am the opposite of normal, and his motivation is obviously as his results show. To keep his daughter free of the Virus. I am the Virus. Stupid doctors.

When Tuesday morning comes, I'm still sulking as I check out at the front desk and step onto the shuttle. I hadn't known Jessica when I had fought so hard to attend high school. Reaching that goal had meant that perhaps I could resume a part of living. The crushing blow on Sunday had taken that future away from me. My classes feel boring and worthless now. I'm not paying attention on my way to Art and bump into someone as I'm walking.

“Hey, jerk!” the big body yells as he whips around. It's Tyson.

“I'm sorry,” I say. I wave toward him and slide away to resume my walk to class. I cinch my backpack tight.

The warning bell rings. I've got two minutes before I'm late.

“Where you going?” asks Tyson.

“I've got to get to class,” I say. “Sorry.”

A hand grabs my wrist and he's there again, hovering over me.

“Dead man walking,” someone yells behind him.

The kids around us snicker.

I try wrenching my arm away, but Tyson's grip is too strong. Some of my flesh burns me and peels away.

“Gross! Zombie boy bled on me.” Tyson drops his grip and flings his fingers toward the crowd that is forming in the hall.

A couple girls scream and some of the kids dart away, shoving the others as they exit. Suddenly there’s panic and yelling. One girl faints.

“Look what you've done, freak,” Tyson tells me.

I shake my head, unwilling to apologize. I need to get to class. I don't want detention.

“Hey. Where you going?”

Before I can escape, someone has shoved me from behind. I smash into the wall and taste blood on my lip. I duck low to avoid what I think will be a strike to my head. I'm right. Tyson smashes the brick, yelling in pain as I scramble away.

“Freak.” Tyson chases me and shoves me again.

This time, I fall to the ground. He steps on my back and I feel the cover of my tablet crack between his foot and my back.

“I'm sorry, Tyson,” I say. “I just want to get to class.”

“You don't belong here, freak,” he tells me. “You don't belong anywhere.”

“Except a graveyard,” someone says.

There's more shoving and pushing and I'm in the middle of it. I feel flesh from my arms being torn away. My body feels hotter and hotter. I don't want to fight and clench my fists to fight the pain. Another shove into the wall, this time I hit a locker. I feel the metal bend around my shoulder.

“Stop it,” I say. I wipe my face. I'm bleeding.

Everyone is far back now, but no one has gone to class, despite the tardy bell. Tyson takes another shot at me. I shove his arm to the side and strike his face. And smile. Now I'm in my hospital room again, hitting and striking the dummy given to me to control my condition. With a thousand punches and kicks, I shock Tyson and the students around us. The workout is exhilarating, but I don't feel like myself. I'm hot, and dizzy, and angry. Someone is screaming.

“Stop. Stop!” Mr. Todd waves his arms in front of me. He has two school guards with him. They shove me back, forcing me into the wall. I'm done now, finished with my exercise, and I see what I've done to Tyson. He's crouched on the floor, bleeding from his head and his arms. He's yelling in pain. Everyone else is silent and staring.

“Go to class now.” Mr. Todd clears the hall with one resonating order.

In a flurry of commotion, like a stampede of elephants, the student body clears and leaves us alone. The zombie, two guards, Mr. Todd, and Tyson. Nurse Jennings arrives, makes a frightened glance at me, and then attends to Tyson. He's bleeding through his shirt.

The ceiling moves from side to side, then it swirls. I'm spinning. I see lights. I hear sirens. Paramedics run into the school and wheel Tyson out on a stretcher. I'm held in place until police arrive. These aren't the usual cops in uniforms with handcuffs. These cops are dressed in black with SWAT embroidered on their shoulder patches. The men smother me, each grabbing an arm or leg, and carry me out to a dark van. I curse a protest as they shove me into the back.

~ O ~

It's dark in the room and colder than most. Blinking lights of two cameras in the corner announce that somewhere, someone is watching me. I crouch around my knees and cradle my arms. One of them is still bleeding and the skin peels open and closed like a flap, exposing the mechanics under
neath. No nurses come. It's only me, steel walls, and the comfort of a cold cement floor.

I expect someone to enter, some detective or authority announcing his presence with a long title. I'm in trouble, I know that, but this was only a fight and I was defending myself. Once I tell my side of the story, I'll be sent back to the hospital.

But no one comes. It's nighttime. I know this because my body feels week. I feel like my energy is draining like water from a faucet. I'm dangerous this way and hope someone realizes that. I need to eat; otherwise I
will
become a monster.

My thoughts drift toward Jessica. I wonder if I'll see her again. I wonder what the news will say about me now, and how she'll react. I stare at the blinking lights until they turn into menacing eyes, like a demon calling me in silence—and sleep.

~ O ~

“You've caused quite a mess, Ryan.” Mr. Jackson, my lawyer, wakes me. He's standing at the door with a policeman on each side. “Would you like to see the video?”

“Video?” I rub the sleep from my eyes. The cold floor has been cruel to me; my knees crack when I try to stand.

Mr. Jackson comes closer and kneels. He activates the screen on his tablet. “If you wanted attention, you should have called me first. I would have arranged a press conference.”

I don't understand until the video starts to play. It's shaky and obviously taken from a phone—someone at school. There I am, backed against the locker. It's like watching a memory, only from someone else's eyes. I attack Tyson over and over, punching him so fast that I can't believe I’m staring at myself on the screen. In a matter of only a few seconds I've knocked him against the wall, thrown him across the hall, shoved him to the ground, and have beat him with my fists hundreds of times. Tyson screams and the video cuts to black. I manage to see the count before Mr. Jackson shuts off the tablet. Seven million views.

“I don't need to ask if that is you,” he says, “but I'm hoping for a miracle. Is it?”

“I didn't start the fight, sir. I was trying to get to class.”

“Well, that student you destroyed might never step foot in your school again.”

I look up.

“Three broken ribs, a concussion, and a lot of internal bleeding. He'll spend at least six weeks recovering.”

I look at my bleeding arm and then at my hands. I did that? Mr. Jackson seems to have heard my question because he's already answering.

“You did.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, the same way he always used to when telling me things were going to get worse. “I can't fix this, Ryan,” he says. “But I'll do the best I can.” He steps up and peers down at me. That's when I notice his eyes are bloodshot. He must have had a long night. “I think you can forget about high school.”

“Sir?”

He shakes his head. “You saw the video. No one in the state will let you within a mile of that place again.”

“That's not fair. I didn't start the fight.”

“When has life ever been fair to you?” Mr. Jackson wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. “They're going to keep you here until I can get things sorted out. Be nice. Don't give anyone a reason to make this worse.” He looks at the guards. “And I want unedited copies of the surveillance from this room.”

The door closes and I'm alone again.

I think about flipping off the camera, to thank the world for its kindness, but I decide better. My life is over. Everything I've worked for the past two years is gone in a few seconds of online video. There's no home, no Stanford, no high school, and no Jessica. People who protest, saying the dead have no feelings are wrong. This hurts and it hurts a lot. I punch the wall, denting the steel, and then crouch in the center of the room and wait.

~ O ~

It feels like several hours before I see anyone again. Two cops with guns drawn stand at each side of the door. They're followed by a nurse pushing a small cart. She's shaking and won't look me in the eyes as she approaches. I let her examine me and don't make a fuss about the shot she gives me in my damaged arm. After handing me a couple pills and a paper cup full of water, she leaves a plate of meat.

I'm midway through the food when the walls of the room go blurry. She's given me more than medicine. I try to scramble to the door, but everything spins and my world goes black before I make it to my feet.

~ O ~

When I wake, I can't move my arms or legs. There's a band across my forehead, keeping me from looking around, and a strap over my mouth. I stare at the tiles in the ceiling. I don't recognize this place. A door opens and people march around me like soldiers. Only their not dressed like soldiers. They're wearing scrubs like at the hospital. Seven masked faces look down at me.

“Good morning, Mister Moon,” one of them says.

I glare back because I recognize the eyes from TV. It's the devil. That masked man may be covered up, but it's him, I know it. Dr. Snow, Jessica's father. I squirm and twist and fight the bonds that hold me down. The table I'm on shakes under my efforts, but I'm unable to move. I yell, wanting to shatter the walls with my anger, though the binding muffles my voice and I can barely breathe.

“We're going to keep you like this for a while,” says Dr. Snow. He stares at me, searching for something. “Until you're ready to cooperate.” He seems to find what he's after and his eyes go wide. He turns as if he's leaving, then stops and peers back at me. “It's good to finally meet you.”