fairly large reception area with benches, a television, and a community board with all kinds of announcements and kids' drawings. Jeremiah was already out cold on an old, beat-up couch in the corner. The way he was curled into it, I could tell it had been his goal to get to that couch, the image of it the target in his mind. All there was left for him now was to see which way the virus took him.
"It's a food bank," Alison said. She flipped on the lights and showed me the next room, where large, open boxes were packed to the top with applesauce, powdered milk, boxes of pasta, cereal, cans of tuna and tomato sauce and whatever else you could think of. The walls were lined with shelves of the same, organized into categories and labeled clearly.
There was a doorway in the far wall that led to a musty stairway. The second floor was just as good as the first. There, wooden palettes held cases of bottled water and juices as well as blankets, portable heaters, first aid kits and batteries.
All I could think to say was, "Wow."
"I know. It's not bad."
I turned to her. "Not bad? This place is a fucking goldmine. I told you Jay's worth keeping around. Who knows the streets better than someone who's lived on them?"
She nodded. "Hopefully for his sake the night is good to him."
I went to the back window. It looked down on an enclosed courtyard with a makeshift basketball court. The blacktop was decorated in colorful chalk, on one side a hopscotch court and the other a few drawings. "How is it some of us become Bleeders and some don't," I asked. Alison was rifling through a box of flashlights and looked up.
"Frank, he uh, he noticed a small amount of people survived the infection, with some side-effects. The aggression. The hunger. You feel it, don't you?"
"I'm always hungry."
"Not like this. It feels like an addiction, like an itch you can't scratch."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, turning away from the depressing courtyard. "Did he know why?"
"He had a few theories, mostly genetics. Recessive genes, inherited immunity."
"Are you saying I should thank my mom for this?"
"Maybe."
"What else did he think it could be?"
"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."
"After the day I've had, you could tell me aliens had come to resurrect Abraham Lincoln and I would believe you."
She tossed the flashlight back into the pile. "It doesn't matter anyway. If the virus doesn't kill you, someone infected with it does. There's almost no point in looking for a cure for this thing. It's a perfect killing machine."
I nodded. "Like Dolph Lundgren."
"What?"
"Dolph Lundgren. Did you know he's a marine, a chemical engineer and a black belt? He speaks like seven languages."
She paused, then half-smiled. "You're a weird guy, Brody."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know."
There was no point in going on and on about how fucked we were. I volunteered to stay awake while Alison slept, which she did, under a blanket on one of the benches. Aside from watching the windows and door for unwanted visitors, I was also keeping an eye on Jeremiah, making sure he didn't wake up with any new cravings.
I hit the bathroom before settling down. In the mirror I did a double-take, forgetting what my eyes would look like. With all the running I hadn't taken a second to look at myself, and now that I had I didn't know how to feel. It wasn't just the red irises, my face looked different somehow. It was me, yet not me.
By the time I came out of the bathroom Alison was asleep, but unlike Jeremiah who looked half-dead, her sleep was uneasy. She looked like a junkie coming off the junk, and she moved and cried out like she was having the same nightmares I'd had back in the stadium. Even now I could remember the visions I'd had, and wished I didn't.
Confabulations, she'd said, the inability to separate dreams from waking life. What if the Bleeders were locked in that same nightmare, feeding the shadows for as long as they could until the darkness came for them,
"It's a food bank," Alison said. She flipped on the lights and showed me the next room, where large, open boxes were packed to the top with applesauce, powdered milk, boxes of pasta, cereal, cans of tuna and tomato sauce and whatever else you could think of. The walls were lined with shelves of the same, organized into categories and labeled clearly.
There was a doorway in the far wall that led to a musty stairway. The second floor was just as good as the first. There, wooden palettes held cases of bottled water and juices as well as blankets, portable heaters, first aid kits and batteries.
All I could think to say was, "Wow."
"I know. It's not bad."
I turned to her. "Not bad? This place is a fucking goldmine. I told you Jay's worth keeping around. Who knows the streets better than someone who's lived on them?"
She nodded. "Hopefully for his sake the night is good to him."
I went to the back window. It looked down on an enclosed courtyard with a makeshift basketball court. The blacktop was decorated in colorful chalk, on one side a hopscotch court and the other a few drawings. "How is it some of us become Bleeders and some don't," I asked. Alison was rifling through a box of flashlights and looked up.
"Frank, he uh, he noticed a small amount of people survived the infection, with some side-effects. The aggression. The hunger. You feel it, don't you?"
"I'm always hungry."
"Not like this. It feels like an addiction, like an itch you can't scratch."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, turning away from the depressing courtyard. "Did he know why?"
"He had a few theories, mostly genetics. Recessive genes, inherited immunity."
"Are you saying I should thank my mom for this?"
"Maybe."
"What else did he think it could be?"
"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."
"After the day I've had, you could tell me aliens had come to resurrect Abraham Lincoln and I would believe you."
She tossed the flashlight back into the pile. "It doesn't matter anyway. If the virus doesn't kill you, someone infected with it does. There's almost no point in looking for a cure for this thing. It's a perfect killing machine."
I nodded. "Like Dolph Lundgren."
"What?"
"Dolph Lundgren. Did you know he's a marine, a chemical engineer and a black belt? He speaks like seven languages."
She paused, then half-smiled. "You're a weird guy, Brody."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know."
There was no point in going on and on about how fucked we were. I volunteered to stay awake while Alison slept, which she did, under a blanket on one of the benches. Aside from watching the windows and door for unwanted visitors, I was also keeping an eye on Jeremiah, making sure he didn't wake up with any new cravings.
I hit the bathroom before settling down. In the mirror I did a double-take, forgetting what my eyes would look like. With all the running I hadn't taken a second to look at myself, and now that I had I didn't know how to feel. It wasn't just the red irises, my face looked different somehow. It was me, yet not me.
By the time I came out of the bathroom Alison was asleep, but unlike Jeremiah who looked half-dead, her sleep was uneasy. She looked like a junkie coming off the junk, and she moved and cried out like she was having the same nightmares I'd had back in the stadium. Even now I could remember the visions I'd had, and wished I didn't.
Confabulations, she'd said, the inability to separate dreams from waking life. What if the Bleeders were locked in that same nightmare, feeding the shadows for as long as they could until the darkness came for them,
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