We were good together, me and him. I’d sensed it from the first. So much alike, yet different enough to add spice. It was a cruel joke that our time together would be so short.
I didn’t let myself think of that, though, but only of the sensations. The feel of him in my mouth. The hair on his legs rubbing rough on my skin.
Our first time together.
Our last time together.
When he’d reached his climax, he found my arms with his hands, guiding me upward until I was straddled over his mouth. He teased me at first, going too slow, pulling back, torturing me with gentleness, until the tension built and built and I was thrusting myself on him, trying to capture his fluttering tongue, begging for release.
“Please …” I gasped. “Please.”
He grabbed my hips, pulling me closer, taking me firmly.
Devouring me.
I shuddered, the pleasure so intense it was almost pain, the first ripple in a building, rising wave that reduced me to nothing but pure sensation.
I could only hope the taste of me, the sound of my screams, gave him as much satisfaction as he gave me.
When my leg muscles could take no more, I moved back down his body and brushed his lips with mine.
He peered at me, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright.
I slipped next to him in the bed and fitted my body against his.
“You were amazing,” I breathed. “Just as I thought you’d be.”
“You, too.”
I shook my head slowly, the sadness creeping in. “I wish we had more time …”
“Time?” He grinned. “Babe, we got the rest of our lives.”
His hand moved between my legs and began to stroke.
I had no idea how my body had any more to give, but again I began to respond, despite the specter of death around me.
Or maybe because of it.
Sex affirms life.
He shifted, moving on top of me, keeping his weight on his elbows. I wrapped my legs around him, sighing as he entered me, burying my face in his neck as he began to thrust.
We were the only two people in the world.
Only one of us would see tomorrow.
I couldn’t think of a better way to go out.
When we finished, we held each other.
Held each other, and looked at each other.
The afterglow faded.
Dread crept back in.
The looking at each other became watching each other.
I saw it first, and it felt like a punch to the gut.
Just a small bruise on the back of the hand.
But it hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Small. Black. Harmless looking.
Then it began to grow, spreading out, taking only a few minutes to double in size while we both silently stared.
The nosebleed came next. A trickle at first. Then a steady stream.
“Aw … Chandler …” Kirk said.
I reached for the IV needle.
Hooked up the morphine.
Tried to be brave.
“It’s okay,” Kirk said, staring at me so hard he must have seen my soul.
The whites of his eyes were bright red.
Subconjunctival hemorrhage.
“It’s not okay,” I said. “Not at all.”
I held his head to my chest.
After that, things happened quickly. The progression of the virus, which normally took days, unfolded in under an hour, right in front of my eyes.
Coughing.
Coughing blood.
Vomiting blood.
Kirk didn’t despair. He didn’t complain. He didn’t cry. He didn’t do any talking, other than two softly whispered words.
“Kill him.”
I promised I would, wanting to squeeze his hand, not being able to because his skin tore as easily as tissue paper.
By the time I moved to sit on my own hospital bed, Kirk didn’t even notice. He stared into space, his red eyes blank, the muscles of his face slack. The parts of his brain that made him who he was were gone, liquefied by the virus. Only the illness’s final stage remained.
Death.
That word echoed through my mind as I witnessed the last moments of Jonathan Kirk.
“When it comes to survival, violence often isn’t the best option,” said The Instructor. “But when you choose to use it, strike hard and fast and destroy your enemy. There is no winning and losing in a fight, only living and dying.”
The room smelled like a slaughterhouse.
There was a sink, and I did my best to wash Kirk’s blood off me.
I checked myself for new bruises.
Didn’t find any.
Chilled, I pulled my hospital gown around my naked skin. My hands trembled, events of the past day catching up to me, overwhelming me. Tears brimmed my eyes, turning the world into a blurry mosaic of white and red.
I blinked them back.
Focus.
I am ice. Cold. Hard. A blow torch couldn’t thaw me.
The camera eye stared down from the ceiling. The heart monitor had been turned off, the room silent now except for the drip of Kirk’s blood on tile.
And a soft hiss …
A soft, smoky hiss, coming through the overhead vent.
I scooped in a breath, held it, then staggered and collapsed to the floor.
The hiss continued, long after my lungs had started to scream for oxygen. But I was damn good at holding my breath, and soon the tone of the sound changed to the hum of a ventilation system at work.
I let my air out slow, made my lungs take in big, deep breaths like I was asleep.
A short time later, the door opened, and four people in full, pressurized hazmat gear lumbered into the room. I heard the soft sound of wheels, as if they were pushing a tray or gurney, and the suck and release of their SCBA.
“Put her on the bed. I need some blood.”
The voice was muffled, but I could tell it was the same voice that had spoken to us over the intercom.
“Then where do you want her?”
“In the room with the girl.”
“And him?” another asked.
“You can clean that mess up later.”
Two sets of hands lifted me from the floor and dropped me onto the mattress. I caught a glimpse through my lashes, a tray filled with needles and vials. One of them grabbed my arm and wrapped a rubber tourniquet around my biceps. I felt the sting of a needle on the inside of my elbow, then a clumsy shifting as they filled tubes with my blood.
“Okay, got it. I don’t want her waking up. Stick that IV back in and get her sedated. And tie her hands to the bed rails this time. No sense in taking chances.”
I would have preferred to let them take me to Julie before making my move, at least then I’d know her location, but I couldn’t let them put me under. Still if I could bide my time, take them by surprise, hope that some left to perform other jobs, I’d have a better chance. If even one stepped out of the room, I’d increase my odds by twenty-five percent.
I stayed put, picturing the room around me in my mind’s eye, cataloguing what tools were at my disposal. Once the man at my bedside replaced the catheter in the back of my hand, he would have to reconnect the drip. For a second, he would be facing away from me, and that’s when I would make my move.
He stuck the needle in the back of my hand, and I braced myself against the pain. For several seconds he poked and jabbed, searching for a vein. Finding none, he slid the needle out and tried again.
Still no luck.
And no one had left the room. Although my eyes were closed, I could hear four distinct respirations, four sets of shuffling movement. I didn’t know if these guys were medical personnel, lab techs, or soldiers, but judging from the skill set of the one prodding me, I was leaning toward soldiers. They would know how to fight.
But when he stuck the needle in for a third time and started digging around, I knew I couldn’t take it any longer.