...Jerrid thrust a shot in front of each of them. “Drink.”
“Oh, Jerrid. I really don’t want—“
Jerrid downed his shot in one gulp, “You heard me.”
The rest of them took their shots and left the glasses on the table. Chris could feel his stomach bile and Whiskey re-creating the civil war in his belly.
“So,” said Jerrid looking over at the pool table. “I guess you won. Too bad I didn’t see it, so it doesn’t count.”
Chris felt annoyed. “You were too busy crying like a baby behind Katrina. But I’ll happily kick your ass again if you want.” Chris was smiling until Jerrid stepped up to him, their chests almost touching. “--At pool I meant.”
“I thought so.” Jerrid smiled and backed down. “No, it’s not worth my time.”
“So we have a deal then?”
“We’ll see.” Jerrid walked over to grab his drink from beside Gregory.
The haggard waitress that Jerrid called ‘Darlin’’ came over and grabbed her empty drink tray, giving Jerrid a dirty look. “You said you’d bring this right back.”
“Sorry, guess I lied. I wanted to make you come get it.” He winked at her and she smiled back at him and walked away. They all moved to a table in the middle of the room.
“So kid,” Gregory turned to Chris. The bar was almost full now and the music was a lot louder. “Why you writin’ an article about the infection? What kinda things you wanna know?”
“Everything: how it started and what it was like; how people dealt with it; what the town was like living in while it was happening. Just everything.”
“Well, let me tell you: nothing you write will portray what it was like living during that time. It was like living in Hell. Family members were killed, or transformed. You don’t know what it’s like to see a family member chase after you wanting to eat you, or seeing babies and toddlers with blood dripping from their lips after they’ve just fed on their household pet. Could you imagine having to kill your own child, or someone else’s?”
“No, I couldn’t. But neither can the rest of America, and they don’t even know it can happen. That’s why I want to write this article.”
“And how do you think that you can get this article out when the rest of the people that have tried couldn’t?”
“I don’t know that it won’t get killed like the rest, but once I tell my boss about this, he has to publish it. He just has to,” Chris said reassuring himself more than Gregory.
“You make it sound like there’s still infected people running around out there.”
“There is,” Gregory said.
“What?”
Gregory shook his head as if to erase what he just said, “I mean they’re not all gone yet. Every once and awhile we’ll come across a decomposing body with the eyes sucked out, or a limb that’s been torn off and the flesh chewed all around it. That means there’s still some out there.“
“We got a live one the other week; not from around here—-as far as I could tell--and we thought that he was our last problem. But another body turned up after him. Look, don’t tell anyone. We have it under control and we’re pretty sure there’s only one running around. We’ll get him.” Jerrid inhaled and winked at a different waitress.
Chris’ heart rate rose and Gregory could see it on his face. “Don’t worry kid. No one’s going to get you.”
Katrina leaned over the table, “So, the blood on your shirt today Jerrid, that was—“
“A bird. I told you that.”
“Just checking.” Katrina lit her cigarette.
“No, we had a lot more watchmen during the peak of the infection; we had recruiting sessions like an army and even practice during the day. But, too many of the watchmen were being killed or getting infected, so we decided that we would take care of the whole thing alone, that way we wouldn’t have any more unnecessary blood on our hands. I would do nights and Jerrid would do days and we’d trade sometimes. Whenever we needed a break, Clint-- Katrina’s uncle—would come help sometimes too.”
“So what made you guys so immortal?”
“Nothing, we’re just that good.” Jerrid said. Everyone laughed.
“Jerrid, can I ask what happened to your neck? Where you got that scar?”
Jerrid tamped out his cigarette and took a long sip of his drink. He didn’t acknowledge the question and Chris didn’t want to ask again. He looked at Katrina for an answer. “He doesn’t tell everyone that story.” Katrina comforted him.
“It’s Okay kid,” Jerrid started, “I was about fourteen and went camping up in Northwest US with my parents and brother. We had been there about three days and there were bear warnings all over. My family had always been avid campers; we knew what kind of precautions we had to take. Plus, we had been in bear country many times. After the third day, we had all gone to bed, my brother woke-up and had to go to the bathroom. My dad got up to take him. Jeff insisted on going deeper into the woods so my dad couldn’t see him. Seconds later he started screaming. It was a scream I had never heard before—and never want to again.
“My mother and I heard it from the tent. She grabbed the shotgun my dad left and we went running towards them. My dad was running towards us with Jeff in his arms. Jeff’s leg had a massive chunk taken out of his thigh. My mother dropped the gun and ran over to him. She was screaming, ‘what happened? What happened?’ My dad had trouble answering. He would repeat himself, ‘A bear. I think it was a bear.’
“Jeff had passed out by then and they laid him on the ground, trying to figure out what to do. My dad yelled at me to get the car. I ran. The truck was parked out on the main road--over a hundred yards away. My dad always left the keys in the ignition, but since this was a new spot, he hid them under the steering wheel; it took me awhile to find them. I drove as close as I could get and when the lights shone on the campground, I could only see blood and flesh strewn around the place. I couldn’t hear my mom or see my brother. When I looked closer, the flashlight was on the ground pointed at my dad who was lying on his back and had his arm stretched out reaching for the shotgun about four feet away. I wondered why he didn’t get up to grab it, but when I got closer I saw my dad’s right leg had been ripped—or chewed--off above the knee. He was obviously in some kind of shock or something. I grabbed the flashlight and that’s when I saw my mother’s body underneath the bear. She was already dead.” Jerrid stopped a moment and took a mouthful of rum and Coke.
“The weird thing was, the bear’s fur was brown but it was patchy; pieces of it missing and the skin showing through was all infected, like mange on a dog--but worse—not as scabbed, more raw. I ran over to grab the gun, as I got closer to my dad, the bear was distracted by the light from my flashlight. My dad screamed at it to leave me alone, it jumped at me anyways. I got the gun cocked and shot him, but on his way down, one of his nails—which was broken and infected—caught my neck.”
“How did you survive when you were so far out in the woods?” Chris asked.
“I got to the truck where he had a VHF and called for help. My dad died in my arms before help got there. I woke-up in a hospital with news reporters and people trying to put me into foster parent programs. They tested the bear for its infections. All tests came back negative for anything and only my neck had a severe infection. I was in the hospital for over a month."
“Did you go to a foster home?”
“A couple, until I was about eighteen, then I ran away and came back here to work for Katrina’s dad.”
Chris nodded. He didn’t know what else to say. Jerrid didn’t seem to care. He turned around in his seat.
“I lost my brother too,” Chris blurted out. Jerrid looked back at him. “He was young. He got hit by a car.”
“Sorry,” Jerrid replied. He lifted his glass to cheers Chris and the others. “To good friends being the best family one can have.” They all clinked their glasses together and gulped down the last drops. Jerrid got up to get another round.
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