The Uninvited presents…
LOVE BITES
by Patrick Freivald
Smashwords Edition
Published by Pterotype Digital
www.pterotypedigital.com
Copyright 2011
ISBN: 978-0-9868459-3-2
cover art by John MacKenzie
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ONE
Jennifer Picknett clicked on the Maglite and lanced the beam into the corpse's eye. The bloodshot orb twitched. The pupil contracted. "Delayed optic response," she said into the microphone. She blew a rogue strand of red hair out of her face and held out a hand without diverting her gaze. "Scalpel." The metal was cold through the thin rubber glove, the ergonomic grip perfect for her small hand. She slid the blade across the lower eyelid, leaving a pinkish line of ruined flesh. It didn't bleed, and the corpse didn't blink. "No pain response."
Cold breath exploded from its mouth, saliva and congealed mucus spattering her face shield. It moaned through the bite guard, arms straining against the inch-wide, steel-banded zip ties that secured it to the operating table. She shifted to avoid the brush of fingers against her hip.
"Doctor!" The voice was a warning.
Jen turned her cool gaze to her fellow surgeon. Despite the chill of the room, Anne Savard was sweating under her hazmat suit. She had deep bags under her wide brown eyes, which stared at the clutching, blue-veined hand of the corpse. Jen leaned back from the table and patted it on the bicep. "And it doesn't matter how strong it is, it can't break steel banding with no leverage."
She stepped away from the corpse and tossed the scalpel into a blue bin in the corner. It was marked with the biohazard symbol in green and INCINERATE in bright orange, and its destiny lay in the twenty-thousand degree plasma furnace in the basement. She held up her hands in as much of a shrug as she could manage in the bulky rubber suit.
"Well?" Anne asked. "He's six weeks dead with almost no decay. Will it work?"
Jen struggled not to facepalm herself. "Uncommunicative, single-minded, no heartbeat, delayed optic response, no pain response. You tell me."
Anne cast her eyes to the floor. "He's not getting better, and he's not dying. The antivirals didn't work."
Jen nodded once. "Let's call it for today."
They stepped into the negative-pressure airlock and waited as the chemical shower scrubbed every possible trace of C9-7a from their suits. The Chinese-manufactured virus was the most dangerous WMD ever conceived by the human race, and they could take no chances in their search for a cure. As the spray of green foam slowed to a trickle, the airlock slid open to reveal a small locker room.
They stripped off their suits and got in the industrial four-spout shower. Anne waggled her fingers at the security camera before she turned on the water, filling the air with steam. Teasing the ever-present surveillance was part of Anne's routine, but Jen suspected that the show was more for her. Anne was cute, athletic, and wore a black pageboy like she invented the look. Jen had had a brief fling with someone much like her during residency, and Anne's flirtations had the subtlety of a baseball bat, but Jen had yet to feel the slightest interest. Her priorities were elsewhere.
* * *
Jen shouldered open the door to her apartment and dropped her keys in the basket. "Ted?" A burnt odor ganged up with the cat box against the valiant attempts of Honey Lavender air freshener. After a day of tests and two hours of Los Angeles traffic, her drooping eyelids tugged her toward the bedroom door and the waiting queen-size mattress. She didn't bother to stifle a yawn. "Babe?"
Dixie hopped off the couch, ears twitching, her sleek black fur flecked with white turned orange in the halogen glow from the window. Jen frowned and scooped the cat from the floor, holding her over the garbage to brush off the motes of popcorn. She started to purr and Jen clucked her tongue in disapproval.
"Did your daddy give you popcorn, little girl?" She clutched the cat to her chest and stepped toward the bedroom. The lights were off, the door ajar. "Sweetie?" Dixie's ears flattened as she stepped toward the door.
She took another step and the cat exploded from her arms and scampered into the kitchen. She felt a sting and looked down. A trio of lines formed on her bicep, the droplets crimson against her pale, freckled skin. She wiped the blood away with her thumb and snorted as it welled up again.
She pushed the door open with her foot. The blinds let in just enough light to see the silhouette spread-eagled on the bed. Ted's chest rose with an open-mouthed snore and fell with a wheeze, then repeated the cycle. She stepped inside and stumbled over a bowl half-full of popcorn. I found the burnt smell at least. She grabbed his white-socked foot with her left hand and gave it a gentle shake. "Sweetie, it's ten o'clock. You're going to be late for work."
He pulled his foot away and draped an arm across his eyes.
Jen sighed, stepped back and hit the lights, then gasped. A half-spilled bottle of Nyquil pooled at the foot of the bed, the sticky green syrup soaked into the sheets. She snatched the bottle before his foot knocked it to the floor, found the cap twisted in the comforter, closed it and set it on the nightstand next to a half-empty Sam Adams. Condensation still glistened on the bottle. She frowned at the Nyquil. How much was in it this morning? She wasn't sure. She pulled back an eyelid, and his pupils filled his iris. Happy freaking Valentine's Day. At least he's breathing. Her thumb left a streak of red across his brow.
She grabbed her purse from next to the front door, sparing a glare for Dixie, a picture of innocence cleaning herself on the back of the couch. She stalked back to the bedroom to check his vitals. The IR thermometer read one hundred and one. She put a stethoscope on his carotid artery and counted. Pulse seventy-two. She struggled a pressure cuff over his limp arm. Blood pressure one-twenty-five over eighty. His lungs were a tad wheezy but didn't sound full of fluid.