His eyes hold mine for a beat. He says nothing but we both know the truth. I watch as he latches the lab kit and stands, leaving me with a throbbing finger and a dozen questions. I ask the only one I think he’ll truly answer. “You never said, will we see each other again?”
LabGuy stares at me and all I see are his sad eyes. For some irrational reason it all comes down to this, like a game of chance or risk. Like he’s a Magic 8 Ball and my future depends on his reply.
“I really, really hope so, Alex.”
And with that he shuts the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
~Now~
Wyatt sleeps for hours. Eight to be exact. I watch him while he sleeps—trying to figure out his story. His looks fall somewhere between ROTC recruit and off-the-grid mountain man. He’s lean, but I see curves of hard muscles on his arms and shoulders. His bag lies at his feet and I can’t help but wonder what he carries in it. Something makes me doubt it’s family photos and his favorite book.
It’s the smell of food that finally rouses him. The kitchen has a gas stove and I’m able to heat a couple of cans of soup. It feels like a luxury.
The couch creaks and whines under his weight and I watch him as he rubs his face trying to acclimate himself. The top side of his hair is matted down, plastered to the side of his face and sleep lines from his sweatshirt zig-zag across his cheek.
“What time is it?”
“Around ten.” P.M. He’s slept half the night. This way I can sleep the other half. “Here, I made some soup.”
He lumbers over and grabs a bowl, gruffly saying, “Thanks.”
We eat in silence, the scrape of our spoons on the shallow bowls the only noise between us. I’ve been thinking the whole time he slept, wondering about this man and where he came from, how we would go forward together. Did it even make sense?
“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said.
“Just some questions.”
“About me?”
“Yeah.”
“Go ahead.”
“You said you checked out once the borders closed down. What do you know about the E-TR virus?” I ask.
“I know people started getting sick. Acting high and crazy. First they thought it was drugs, then a virus, but there are rumors it’s something else. Something that mutated and burns up the brain. Making them delusional and hallucinate. Major aggression. One minute they were beating the crap out of people—the next they were eating them.” He tipped his bowl to his mouth and drank the rest without a spoon. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “Am I missing anything?”
“M
y mom was obsessed with the news. It was hard to narrow down on the right information since they talk just to hear themselves talking but one thing that came out is that it’s definitely not drugs. It’s a parasite and causes an infection in the brain.”
“A parasite?” he asked.
“Yeah, and then the person becomes a living, breathing parasite and latches on to the next thing he or she can find.”
“By eating them.”
“Yeah.” I stirred my spoon around the bowl, fishing out a stray noodle. “They aren’t dead—not like zombies in a book or movie. They’re just sort of…rabid is a good word.”
“And once they go rabid?”
“There’s no turning back.” At least without a miracle cure. “Once their eyes get black spidery veins it’s like their brain has melted for good. Those are the ones that can pass on the parasite—the infection, for sure.”
“And before then?” he asks.
“I don’t know. That’s sort of the big question, right? They aren’t dead, but they’re sick and do you want to risk it?”