Chapter 12
He was spoiled for choice. The wet bar was very well stocked—all expensive brands, stuff he could never afford on his own.
He snatched a bottle up with eager hands, looking at the label. A brandy imported from France. He dropped it back in place and reached for a square bottle with its purple, wax-sealed lid still intact. Scotch, the real kind, shipped over from Scotland. He held it, considering, until a square box near the back of the bar caught his attention. He put the Scotch down, reached for the box with both hands. It was made of a rich-colored wood, and branded with a skull and crossbones. He held it reverently for a moment, his head bowed, and then flipped the lid back. Rum 151. Perfect.
A quick search of the bar rewarded Shane with a knife for cutting limes. He found a box of cigars, too, with a stainless steel lighter. He took the lighter, leaving the cigars behind.
Shane walked back to the couch, rum in one hand, knife and lighter in the other. He stood looking down at his co-worker for a moment, trying to build up his courage. Terrance hadn’t moved at all in several minutes, except for the occasional swelling of his chest with a breath. And the breaths were pretty far apart at this point.
“Hopefully that means you won’t even feel it, buddy,” he said. He glanced at Terrance’s face briefly, but quickly looked away.
Shane got down on his knees at the side of the couch. He slipped the lighter into his pocket, reached forward with the knife. Its serrated edge caught on the fabric of Terrance’s coveralls, but he was able to cut the fabric back from the places where his co-worker had been bit.
The wound just above Terrance’s knee was pretty nasty, a ragged hole torn in his brown skin, revealing a layer of lumpy yellow fat and dark muscle tissue beneath. But it was the bite to his shin that made Shane’s stomach lurch. The skin pulled away like a flap, showing bone so white that it almost seemed to glow in the dim light.
Shane closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating on the feel of the air he was pulling through his clenched teeth. He counted to ten, and opened his eyes again, trying to see things coldly, dispassionately; trying to shut off the part of his mind that made him want to throw up, or faint, or both.
It wasn’t easy—it was almost like trying to keep two completely separate thoughts running in his mind at the same time—but he was able to do it. Both wounds had blood weeping from them, though it was a pretty slow flow. Shane didn’t know whether that meant Terrance’s blood had clotted around the wounds, or that his heart had slowed to the point where it was barely moving blood anymore. In either case, he was relieved to see no sign of damaged arteries, no gushing fluids.
The emergency message on the phone had mentioned infection resulting from bites. Shane brought the rum bottle to his mouth, pulled the cork out with his teeth. It made a cheery sound when it pulled free, and Shane almost smiled despite himself. He spit the cork out, and upended the bottle over Terrance’s wounds.
Terrance hissed softly as the alcohol splashed over the gaping tears in his skin. It wasn’t a dramatic reaction, but it gave Shane hope. Maybe Terrance wasn’t all the way gone yet. Maybe he could still make it back.
But just to be sure, Shane reached through the pocket slit of his coveralls and undid his belt. He pulled it free, used the knife to pierce a new hole. And then he wrapped the belt under Terrance’s chin, pulled it tight, and fastened it at the top of his head, strapping Terrance’s jaw shut.
If Terrance did succumb to infection, Shane hoped he’d be as unthinking as the other people seemed to be, and hopefully that’d be unthinking enough to not undo a belt. It was a stretch, Shane knew, but it didn’t hurt to try.
Unthinking. Thoughtless. That’s what the infected people seemed to be. Shane wouldn’t mind a bit of that feeling himself, right now.
He looked down at the rum bottle in his hand. He’d used about half of it dousing Terrance’s wounds, and now he raised the rum bottle to his lips and took a long draw from what was left. The rum roared through him, blazing in his throat and sinuses like a firestorm, the sensation swelling to fill his head with a brief moment of oblivion. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding on.
And then he heard a bright ding.
Shane opened his eyes, jaw clenched, heart ramping up. He looked over at the elevator.
The doors slid open, and there was White Shirt.