Patient Z

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3“Breakfast, pretty boy.”

Cal woke up, blinking, as Bren moved away from him. He leaned over the cot to see a tray beside the bed.

“Morning to you too,” he said. He used the bathroom, then sat on the cot with his breakfast tray. Not bad—several strips of bacon and a mountain of scrambled eggs. Four slices of toast and a mug of the stale coffee to top it off.

“Where’s Mitch?” he asked.

“Gone to bed,” she said. “Doc will be down soon to check you out.”

Cal pictured Mitch sleeping, all the tension he twanged with gone. A big guy like him would weigh the mattress down and make his bed partner naturally roll toward him. Did Mitch have a regular bed partner? After all this time surviving alone Cal sometimes missed sharing a bed. He’d deliberately chosen to only trust himself, not others. But at times he regretted the choice.

“So,” he said casually. “Mitch. Kind of tightly wound, huh?”

“Say a bad word about that man, and your next words will be saying good-bye to your balls.”

Ouch. And interesting. “Sorry, no offense implied. I just mean he’s pretty tense.”

“He’s a man with a lot of responsibility. And he doesn’t need anyone making his burden heavier.” She was scowling fiercely, and he decided to change the subject.

“I never did get to hear the result of the blood test,” he said.

“The doctor didn’t find anything.”

“So I’m not infected.”

Bren snorted. “Doesn’t mean anything. The parasites could have moved to your brain and not shown in your blood.”

“There won’t be any parasites. It was a damn dog.”

“We’ll be sure in a couple of days.”

Great, a couple more days in this metal box, with either Mitch the tight-ass or the overly loyal Bren, relieved only by some prodding by the doctor.

“And then if you think I’m infected, you shoot me, right?” Cal asked.

“Isn’t that what you would want?” She stood and moved a little closer, but not crossing the line to within reach of him. “It’s what I would want if I got bit.”

“I…wouldn’t want to give up so quickly. And if I had…I mean if I was bitten by a zombie and I’d just shot myself or jumped off my boat to drown, I’d never have got a chance at your doc’s vaccine, would I?” The vaccine was bullshit, of course. A trick. There was no vaccine. One retired old doc, stuck on an oil rig, had developed a vaccine—which the CDC and every university and research lab in the world had failed to do? What a crock of s**t.

“You’ll be telling me next,” Bren said, “that after you got bit you had a premonition you were going to find the one place that could help you.”

That was another trick. It made the assumption he was lying.

“It never crossed my mind, since it was just a dog bite. I was more worried about rabies.”

“Oh, of course. A dog bite.”

He could have snapped back with Oh, of course, a vaccine that nobody else ever heard of. Sure, I’ll believe that. But he kept it to himself and finished his breakfast.

A couple of women brought a big bowl of hot water and bathing stuff after breakfast so Cal could clean up. They wouldn’t let him have a razor. Luckily designer stubble looked good on him. Doctor Burnett showed up not long after that. She frowned at the sight of Cal, who was sitting with his back to the wall on the cot and a blanket wrapped around him.

“You haven’t given him any more clothes yet?” she asked.

“Tricky for him to put anything on while he’s chained up,” Bren said.

“I’m not exactly happy about that either.”

“Me neither!” Cal agreed. His wrists and ankles were starting to chafe, even though the manacles and fetters had been carefully lined with soft material.

“Sorry, Doc,” Bren said. “You know the rules.”

“I know.” The doctor sighed. “I know. Okay, Cal, may I examine you now?”

“I’ll get some help down here,” Bren said.

“No need,” Cal said. There was no point in resisting. He stood, throwing off the blanket, and went to the wall restraints without a protest. He didn’t like it much when Bren brought over the gag. But he’d only get hurt fighting. Or killed. And he wasn’t getting out of here dead.

* * * *

Mitch hated sleeping in the day. He couldn’t sleep in the day, basically. There was always some racket going on. He might be lucky enough to be the only person on the rig with his own room, but even with the door closed, he heard clangs and bangs and voices echoing around the metal-lined halls and rooms.

After a day of fitful sleep, he looked at his gaunter-than-usual face in the mirror, thinking he’d scare the kids if he didn’t smarten up, and tried to put out of his mind the dreams that had kept him restless all night. Dreams about Cal. Dreams of running fingers and lips over the taut flesh, while Cal was chained up and entirely at his command. Mitch had never been into bondage, but the sight of Cal in those restraints had its appeal.

He started shaving, skin softened from his shower. Tried to dismiss the images from his mind. Cal would probably be good. A man that good-looking would never have wanted for partners, so he would have a lot of experience.

Nonsense, he told himself. He knew nothing about Cal’s life. What if Cal was from some tiny-ass end-of-the-world place nobody ever heard of? The kind of place where the gays got out or got dead? Well, then he’d have got out, logic argued. His accent did support his claim to be from New York, but he could have meant the state, not the city. He might have only gone to the city later. Aside from ‘Frisco and Los Angeles, that was the place guys like them went. He’d considered it himself when he left his own get-out-or-get-dead town, before choosing San Francisco. He didn’t much like the snow.

His body responded to the images in his mind. Afterimages of his dreams. But he ignored the urge to reach into his shorts and touch himself. No time. He had work to do. Had to go relieve Bren and see what the doctor’s latest tests showed.

The dreams meant nothing, he insisted to himself as he finished shaving, brushed his teeth, then dressed. Cal was undeniably good-looking, so naturally Mitch was attracted to him. He was a handsome warm body—a damn good body—and that was all. It would be stupid to get too invested in thinking he had to have him.

If Cal was infected, they’d have to put him out of his misery before he turned. He thought “we,” not “I.” He had to think “we,” fearing what he might be forced to do. But if Cal wasn’t infected, there was no way he was staying. Not after the way things had worked out in the past.

He got to the mess early for dinner and sat at a table with Ella and Dolores, a couple of members of the council.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said.

“Mitch,” Dolores said. “You look done in, dear.”

He smiled at her politely, not trusting for a second that she was concerned for his health or considered him dear to her. He’d overheard the word “fag” from the old bat more than once. Voices traveled around corners and through air vents in this place.

“How’s our guest?” Ella asked.

“Fine so far,” Mitch said. “I mean he was when I left this morning. Unless any of you have heard any different.” A fear struck him suddenly that he’d go to the brig and find Cal dead. That Bren would have been forced to kill him during the day and hadn’t woken Mitch to tell him.

No. She’d tell him. Hell, she wouldn’t do it without calling him down there. Unless it was a sudden emergency. Besides, surely if the kids thumping up and down the corridors could wake Mitch, then a shot definitely would. He fought to regain control.

“You okay, Mitch?” Ella asked. Her concern was more sincere than Dolores’s, and he gave her a more genuine smile.

“Fine.”

“We’re going to have a council meeting,” Dolores said. “Tomorrow afternoon, to consider what to do about Mr. Richardson.”

“If we need to,” Ella said. “If he’s infected, he might be dead by then.” Mitch forced himself not to shudder. “If he’s not, then he’ll have to leave.” She’d been a lawyer back in the old days. A prosecutor. Like Mitch, she knew the worst of men. She was no keener to bring that here again than Mitch was.

“That’s what the council will discuss,” Dolores insisted. “If we offer him the chance to stay.”

“You should see the doctor and get your memory checked out,” Ella said. “Perhaps you need a reminder or two. Ethan. Peter. Tony.”

“I never believed what Marcia accused Tony of. It was her word against his.”

“It always is,” Ella said. “And her word is always the truth.”

Mitch had heard this same argument a good fifty times. He finished off his dinner quickly. “Okay, I’ll see you for the meeting tomorrow, then.”

“If we still need one,” Ella said darkly. The woman was positively morbid. More cynical than Mitch on his worst days. He bused his dishes to the wash counter. Inez was manning it today, and he placed them on the counter rather than handing the tray to her. As much as she seemed to trust him now, the poor kid still flinched if he thrust a hand toward her without warning.

“I’m going to relieve Bren from watching over the prisoner,” he said, voice pitched softer than usual. “So she will be up for dinner in a moment.” Her rare smile was a reward in itself. He wondered if she’d been the one taking meals down to Bren and Cal today, because she sure hated to be parted from Bren for long.

“Thank you,” she said and took away his plates to wash. Mitch left behind the argument about the council meeting and headed for the brig. Ella was right. If Cal was still here tomorrow night, if Cal wasn’t dying, then he was not staying.

He found the brig quiet. Bren was sitting straight in her chair, rifle in her arms. Cal was lying on his stomach on the cot, chin down on his crossed arms, reading a book.

“Bren?” Mitch said as he walked in. She said she’d learned in the army to sleep with her eyes open and still look alert. But that wasn’t the case this time, as she looked at him entirely awake and smiled.

“Wondered when you were going to get your ass out of bed. I’m starving.”

“Me too,” Cal said.

“Anything to report?” Mitch asked as she handed him the rifle.

“Doc checked him over again. He’s fully recovered from the dehydration and exposure. He’s getting stronger.” They exchanged a significant glance. The infected did not recover. Dex hadn’t. “She’s taken another blood sample to check.”

“I’ve barely got any blood left,” Cal said, following it up with a dramatic sigh.

“And he’s certainly getting cheekier,” Bren added. “Okay, I’m going to go get dinner. I’ll have them send a tray down for him.”

“Have them send two,” Cal called as she left.

“Hungry?” Mitch asked.

“Making up for those days on the boat with nothing but a few power bars and packets of jerky.”

He looked good. Color back in his cheeks. The ashen tinge gone from his skin. No dark circles under his eyes. And he was hungry. The infected stopped eating and drinking by day four at the latest.

He’s not infected. There will be a council meeting. And then…

Mitch knew what to do if Cal was infected. But he wasn’t so sure what to do if he wasn’t.

* * * *

The next evening, the mess hall, cleared up from dinner, held the council and several observers, who couldn’t vote but could raise concerns. Bren was the last to arrive, coming in yawning and rubbing a hand across her eyes. Ignoring any disapproving frowns, she slipped into the chair beside Mitch’s. Inez was sitting in the chair behind the one saved for Bren, and Bren twisted around to give her a smile before turning back to the group.

“Who’s watching him?” Mitch asked quietly. He’d have to wait until this was over to take the night shift watching over Cal, and he was impatient to get down there.

“Blanca and Kristy.”