Chapter 13: The Longest Night
OVER THE NEXT few hours, Jonas' temperature spikes. Miranda draws the covers away from him, but he clings to them, shivering. Sweat pours off of him. Miranda rubs the muscles of his back. They twitch and convulse under her hands. We debate for a while what this could be. The flu? Fall fever? The dark sleep? Neveah shakes her head again and again. She cradles Jonas and administers sips of her herbal concoction. But soon I begin to realize that her head shaking is not all in response to our inept diagnosing capabilities.
Miranda takes over for Neveah, and I go to fill another pan to put on the stove. When I return, Neveah's gesturing something to Apollon, who is nodding grimly, mumbling something about the season back to her. Miranda suddenly lets Jonas' head drop, and moves the cup aside as she sits down on the edge of the bed. She touches her face, her shoulders slumping. Her cheeks are bright pink, even through her golden skin. I go to her, and she shrugs me off.
"Just tired," she says. "And worried."
"And hot," I say, managing to get my hand on her forehead even though she turns her face away from me. I take her arm and help her stand. "Into bed with you." I lead her around so she can climb in from the bottom. She doesn't argue any more.
Apollon and Neveah have broken off their conversation and are looking at us wide-eyed.
Apollon grabs his jacket and shrugs it on quickly. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he says.
Neveah nods, and I realize she's sent him after some herb she needs. Something she doesn't have. That's what he was saying about the season. Is it even growing? Will he be able to find what she needs?
Miranda's sinking into the bed now, her eyes rolling back, but she's still conscious. "What is this?" I hiss at her, as if she can give me some answer that makes sense, now that she's sick, too. She groans, her eyes closing, her eyebrows tilted upward in the center of her forehead. I want to help her. I want to help Jonas. But then, I look at her lying next to him, and wonder how she managed to catch whatever this is. I snuff air through my nose and retract my hand. I turn to Neveah, who has Oscar rifling through herb packets. "Is there something else I can do?" I ask. "Are the herbs the only thing that will help? What about medicine?"
Neveah hesitates, then shakes her head. But it is enough. Of course. Of course medicine would help. She's thinking we have no money for it, and she's right. Isaiah Bones is notorious for charging exorbitant prices for his chemical medicine, and now that things in the Outpost are going so poorly, the price has probably tripled again. The cost would be far more than what we have, and that would leave nothing to live off of. Frustrated, I turn away. My eyes fall on Jonas and Miranda. Their chests rise and fall silently, rapidly. I turn back to Neveah. Her gaze is sympathetic for just an instant before she gets back to the business of tending the ill.
We dose them with herbs for another hour, and then another. Apollon has still not returned and Neveah is looking on-edge. She cannot hide the frantic worry in her eyes. Jonas is pale— a ghost of himself. If I couldn't see his shallow breathing, I would think him dead. Miranda looks almost green. She has sweat into the bed so there's a ring of dampness around her.
Jonas starts sputtering. Neveah clutches him closer, rolling him to his side. I think he's coughing, but I'm not sure. His body jerks in on itself in a way that just doesn't seem right. I hold my breath until the moment passes and he goes quiet again. Neveah's eyes are wide and startled. My fingernails are making deep gouges in my palm. Apollon isn't back. When will Apollon be back?
I shudder and jump to my feet. "What medicine?" I demand. "Which one?"
Neveah glances at me, eyes widening. She starts to shake her head, but then, she looks down at Jonas. Her gaze wanders to Miranda.
Oscar, looking sleepy and strung-out, blinks at me from the couch. "No, Eden," he says. His voice is small.
I give him a look that silences him. He purses his lips and stares at me through those large brown eyes.
I level my gaze at Neveah. She looks at me. A moment later, she signs with her fingers. V2. Probably the strongest anti-viral available. I have my doubts as to whether Isaiah Bones will even have it in his repertoire. I'm about to find out. I squat down next to the table, remove the wall panel and take the last coins from the jar. I secure them in my pocket, and leave without another word.
I wrap my fingers around the hilt of my knife as I stalk through the darkness toward my destination. I know beyond a doubt that the money I carry is not enough. There are only two options. Make more quickly, or do something that will likely get me killed. I'm not really liking my odds either way tonight, but I consider my choice again, keeping to the shadows, and decide that it's probably the right one. My steps widen as I leave the quieter streets for the ones nearer the center of the Outpost. I walk along the sidewalk of the main drag, casting dangerous glares in the direction of anything that moves, hoping that I look tough enough that no one will risk messing with me. By the time I step through the lit door of the Rustler, my whole body is tense, my muscles hard and stiff. I roll my shoulders and walk toward the card table.
In a way, it's lucky that Donegan is playing tonight. He looks up at my approach with eyes cold as a basement floor. I repress a reaction, slide out the nearest empty chair, and sit down. Most of the other players are used to my presence at the table, so no one says anything. Lloyd is playing as well, with a meager stack of coins in front of him. Coyote Dan, having folded the current round, winks at me as I glance at his decent pile of money. It's been a while since I've seen him, and now I wonder if he's been coming to these later games with Donegan because there's so little profit in the earlier ones. Jacob and Taylor also seem to be holding their own. But the majority of the money at the table sits enticingly in front of Donegan. I don't look directly at his loot, but I'm estimating value from my peripheral vision, and I think it will do just fine.
The next round begins and I throw in my silver. Coyote Dan deals. My cards slide one at a time across the table toward me. I scoop them up and have a look. It's not much, but it'll have to do. I'm taking no prisoners tonight. I need to win the money and be gone. So I let the tiniest flick of a smile curve the corners of my mouth, then make it go away like I let it slip by accident. I bluff my way through the first hand and end up with a small reward. I have decent cards the second round, but halfway through I can tell that they're not good enough. Whatever it is that Lloyd has, he'll not be bluffed into folding, so I have to fold before I put more money at risk. I watch sourly as the hand finishes. Lloyd sets down a straight flush at the end of the game, confirming my suspicions. I did the right thing. The next hand, I get shit all, and I can't make anything of the situation. When the next deal offers me a pair of twos, I'm starting to get nervous. I toss in the following ante thinking that my luck has to break. My friends are sick— possibly dying. Their lives depend on my card-playing skills. I cannot allow myself to lose another hand.
I slide my cards up and my heart nearly stops. I still have nothing. Absolutely nothing. My money has been slowly depleted, and now I'm playing with just less than I showed up with in the first place. If I don't win this hand, I will have gone too far into the negative to hope to recover. To make matters worse, it's quickly apparent that both Lloyd and Donegan have fairly decent hands. Maybe even good hands. I put out miniscule signals that will tell my opponents that mine is in fact better than theirs, while, if everything goes according to plan, not arousing their suspicions. Either their hands are that good, or Lloyd and Donegan aren't buying it. Only the two of them are left in the game with me. I don't have much to work with, but I need to increase the stakes, make them nervous. So when it's my turn, I go all in. Carefully, slowly, I slide my belt knife from its sheath and place it in the center of the table. Everyone goes quiet for just an instant. It's enough, I think. It's enough.
Lloyd tosses his cards in, but I ignore i
t. I cannot let Donegan see how happy that makes me. I meet his gaze from across the table. He eyes the pot greedily, considers his cards. I can feel Coyote Dan's gaze on me, sharp and analyzing. It doesn't matter. Only Donegan matters now. I allow myself to look slightly tense, anticipatory. I want him to stay in the game, I think, even though it's not true. I want him to place more money in the pot so I can take it. I will my body to say this to him. To make him think there is no way he can possibly win. He reaches for his coins, his eyes still on me. Then he hesitates. I hold his gaze. Give me that money, I think, channeling what I want him to believe. He pauses for a long time. Then he throws his cards face down. I close my eyes and swallow, despite myself. Then I take my money and my knife. My hands shake as I slide the blade back into its sheath. Clumsy fingers pocket my coins. I stand. There was enough in the pot, and I'm out. Twenty percent goes to Arthur. All I can think now is that my friends may live. The rest of the bar disappears behind a blur until I hear Donegan mumbling.
"You were bluffing," he says.
I glance at the cards as Coyote Dan swoops them into the deck pile. I didn't have to show them. They were face down. In my relief, I've given myself away, but it doesn't matter. I'm done. My friends will live. So I just shrug at Donegan as the cards disappear into the shuffle. "If you think so," I say. I turn and walk out of the Rustler.