Chapter 11
Terrance stood several inches taller than Shane, and probably weighed at least fifty pounds more. And Terrance had suddenly become so weak that he could hardly stand on his own, let alone move. Shane thought of that as he struggled his larger co-worker the relatively short distance from the elevator to the couch. There was no way they’d be able to outrun the man in the white shirt, even though the fellow lurched like a drunk.
Shane went to the secretary’s phone to try another 911 call. But this time, when he lifted the receiver from its cradle, the line was dead. The skylight had brightened somewhat, drawing light from the typical foggy gloom of San Francisco’s sky, but the main lights still hadn’t turned on.
“Phones are dead, Terrance,” Shane said. “Lights still aren’t working, either.”
His co-worker, who had started shivering despite the sweat that coated his face, said nothing in response.
Shane watched him for a minute. He walked over to the fridge at the wet bar, pulled it open. It was fully stocked: glass bottles of spring water, exotic teas, kombucha blends, a few fancy Belgian beers. There were even a few cans of Voodoo.
He took off his gloves, folded them and put them in his pocket. Then he pulled out a bottle of water for Terrance, and looked at it, frowning.
“Figures,” Shane muttered. “They dam the Hetch Hetchy river to bring water to San Francisco, destroying a valley as beautiful as Yosemite, and the yuppies won’t even drink it.”
Shane grabbed a beer for himself and walked back over to the couch.
“Terrance,” he said. “Terrance, have some water.”
He held the bottle out, but Terrance made no move for it.
“Terrance, you’re sweating like a pig. Drink some water.”
Still no response.
Shane sighed. He put his beer on the floor, reached in his pocket for his house keys. The cap on the spring water needed a bottle opener, and he had one on his keys.
He pried the cap off the bottle, and held the water out to Terrance again.
“Terrance,” he said, “drink.”
Terrance made no move for the bottle. His eyes were still shut, but they weren’t squeezed tight anymore. His body still shivered, but it came in brief waves, and wasn’t as violent as the trembling of just a few moments before.
Shane held the bottle out for a minute, but when his co-worker made no move for it, Shane brought the bottle to his lips for him.
“Drink, man,” he said, tipping the bottle gently.
A sip of water flowed into Terrance’s mouth. Immediately, Terrance sat up coughing and sputtering, eyes wild. He swung his arm, knocking the bottle out of Shane’s hand.
“What the fuck!” Shane said.
“No!” Terrance said. “No water.” His eyes were glazed, bloodshot.
“Terrance, you look like shit,” Shane said. “We gotta get you to a hospital.”
“No water,” Terrance said, falling back against the couch and closing his eyes.
“Fine, whatever.”
Shane picked up the bottle of beer, pried off the top. He dropped the cap on the floor and took a long pull from the bottle. He let out a deep sigh, and took another long pull, finishing the bottle off.
“Thank god,” Shane said. For a moment he thought of going back to the fridge for another beer, but he looked at Terrance and decided against it.
“Terrance,” Shane said, “let me try your cell again.”
Terrance made no response.
“Terrance, the land lines are dead. Let me use your cell.”
Still no response. Terrance looked almost as if he’d deflated some, or sunk down into the cushions. He looked smaller, gray in the dim light, unnaturally still. He took a slow breath, let it out. It seemed like a long time before he took another.
Shane reached for Terrance’s unhurt arm, touched his fingers to it gingerly. No response. He lifted Terrance’s hand, pressed two fingers to his wrist. The pulse was there, but barely—a sluggish, weak thing against Shane’s fingers.
“Fuck,” Shane said.
He pulled his gloves back out of his pocket, slipped them on. Carefully, he reached into Terrance’s pocket, fingers probing for the cell phone. He found the phone and pulled it out. He stood up and took a step back from Terrance, looked down at the screen.
There were two yellow-boxed exclamation points now. The message below them read: “Emergency Warning. San Francisco area apparently experiencing outbreak of unknown pathogen, extremely virulent in nature. Compromised individuals display excessively aggressive behavior. Infection apparently transmitted orally, through bites. Citizens are urged to stay indoors with all entrances secured until further notice.”
“Unknown pathogen,” Shane muttered to himself. “Spread through bites. Excessively aggressive behavior.”
He looked at Terrance, who had gone still on the couch. His left sleeve was still pushed up, the bloody rag wrapped around his forearm. The left leg of his coveralls was torn and bloody in two places, where he’d been bitten by the Flannel Man.
Shane looked at Terrance, still and gray on the couch.
“Gonna need something a lot stronger than beer,” he said, walking back to the bar.