Good & Dead #1 (4 page)

“How the hell did you catch these?” Randy wondered aloud, taking the keys from Michael and getting a better hold on him.

“I have no idea,” Michael said.  The warmth of the sunlight eased the pain in his head.  He looked out the window and squinted into the light, shocked that he could be feeling so much better so fast.  “I have no idea what is happening.”

“What are your symptoms, man?  I hope it’s not contagious,” Randy joked.

“Um…” Michael thought about it.  Crazy intense hearing, crazy sense of smell, no injuries from whatever
did
happen last night….  “I don’t know,” he said again.

“Let’s get you to the hospital,” Randy said.

Michael did not want to go to the hospital.  He had been stupid to come to class.  He had to face it.  There had been a dead woman in the alley. 
What the hell happened last night
?  His head raced and ached. 

I have to find out.  I have to get to the alley.  What happened to her?  What happened to me?

“Hey,” he said, pulling away from Randy’s grip, “I’m feeling much better.”

“What?  No,” Randy said with a smile, “You’re not getting out of this.”

“No, really-” Michael began.

“You have to go to the hospital,” Randy said, half amused, “I bet you’d see the doctor if Charlotte was the one taking you.”

No he would not.  Hours alone with her in a silent and tense waiting room covered in his own vomit?  No thank you.

“It’s not the doctor thing
—
I really am feeling better,” Michael said.

“It looks like a concussion to me,” Randy said, “Say supercali…fragilisticexpi…scious.”

“
You
can’t even say it right,” Michael chided.

“Say it,” Randy ordered.

“Supercilifragilisticexpialidocious.  See?  No concussion.”

“Michael,” he said, taking him by the elbow and pulling him toward the exit, “your eyes are red and watering.  You look terrible.  There is vomit all over your shirt, and your skin is—” he began, reaching his thick arm up to Michael’s forehead, “ice cold.  That’s weird.” 

Randy held the door open and pointed outside threateningly.  A bitter wind whipped hard snow past the door and Randy had to strain to keep the door open.  “You’re going.  Period.”

“If I was so sick could I do this?” Michael asked, and sprinted through the open door.

“Big deal,” Randy said, following him out and directing him across the frozen lawn.

“I really am feeling better,” Michael said seriously.

“Really?”

“I really am.”

“Prove it,” Randy said, looking around to the tall classroom windows encircling the courtyard, “put your left foot in.”

Michael looked at the windows.  Several bored students stared at them across the frozen grass.

“Are you serious?”

“I guess you’re not feeling better, then,” he said, taking Michael’s elbow again.

Michael jerked out of his grasp, and sighed.  He put his left foot in.

“Put your left foot out,” he said, smiling.  Michael obeyed.

“Now back in,” Randy said, holding his hands up like a puppet master.  “Well, shake it all about.”

Michael obeyed.  His gangling arms and legs made him look like an old-fashioned marionette.

“Now the right foot,” Randy said with glee.

“Alright, that’s enough!” Michael glanced at the windows nervously.

They stood in the middle of the windswept yard, Randy shivering without his coat.  Michael realized he had left his jacket and scarf back in the classroom, yet he felt perfectly temperate.  It could have been summer.  His fingers and ears were exposed, yet they weren’t stinging like they should be in New York in late October.

“Maybe it was just that room-temperature ham on my pizza last night.  Look, I have my cell phone,” Michael said, pulling it out of his jeans pocket, “You can call to check on me when you get out of the midterm.”

Randy looked conflicted.  He ran his chubby hands through his sandy hair and shivered. 

“You’ll freeze without your coat anyway,” Michael said.

Randy waved that away. “I’m well thermalated.”

“You really need to take the test,” Michael pressed.

Randy pursed his lips.  “Will you go to the doctor?” he asked.

“No.  I am going to go home and rest, though,” he lied.

“Alright.  But you better answer your phone.”

“I will, I promise,” he said, already walking away, “Good luck on the test.”

“Thanks!” Randy yelled after him. “If he even lets me back in now!”

Michael picked nervously at the fraying seam in his belt buckle and stared out the window of the cab, wishing they would go faster and slower at the same time.  He was glad that the white-haired driver was silent.  Small talk was the last thing he wanted right now. 

The sound of the traffic was deafening, and his hearing kept swimming in and out with intensity.  One moment everything seemed normal, and the next he could hear so many cars honking from so far away that it seemed like one constant assault of noise.  Michael was afraid of what might happen next.

I’ll just go see if there is anything in the alley.  Maybe it’s nothing. 

But if there isn’t anything then how will I figure out what happened?
  Michael shut his eyes
. 
His stomach lurched as the cab rounded a corner.  Red and blue lights flashed into the blackness of his vision.

“I don’t think you’re going in,” said the cabbie.

Michael opened his eyes.  There were three cop cars blocking the tiny theatre parking lot and alley.  A tall, angry looking man was putting up the ‘crime scene’ tape and scowling at everyone.  There were uniformed cops gesturing up and down the street, as well as a few pedestrians straining to see into the alley where several plainclothes cops stood with solemn faces, making notes on their reports.

Michael cursed under his breath.

“You want me to stop?” asked the cabbie cautiously, “Or keep going?”

“Go, go!” he said, clutching his stomach and trying not to do anything to make the old cab smell worse.

Michael glanced up at the mirror.  The driver looked away quickly.
I’m not good at this
, Michael thought desperately,
I don’t even like cop shows
. 

What happened?
  He tried to remember everything he could about the previous night.  Charlotte had hugged him. He didn’t have any trouble remembering that.  Then he came outside, and…there had been a green shoe.  He remembered seeing fireworks, and he wished he didn’t remember the woman’s face.  But that was all he could picture.

“Sir?” the cabbie cleared his throat after several minutes of traffic, “The meter is running.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Michael told him his address.

“Uh huh,” he replied. 
Great.  If the cops ask, he can tell them where I live
.

They didn’t speak on the short ride to Michael’s apartment.  When they arrived, Michael gave him the largest bill he had on him.  “Keep the change,” he said pleadingly.

The driver didn’t respond, except to peel away from the curb and leave Michael coughing on exhaust.  He turned and stared up at his apartment building, with its narrow brick façade and chipping lead paint on the windows.  His limbs felt heavy; his brain even heavier.  It took a minute for him to realize he wasn’t moving.  Needing to pee shook him out of his stupor.  He climbed the first of three flights of stairs wearily.  His phone rang as he reached his door.

“Hello?”

“Michael,” Randy said on the other end, “Are you alive?”

“Yes.” Michael put his key in the rusty old lock and began the process of pulling up and down on the squeaky doorknob just right so it would open.

“Are you just now getting home?” Randy asked.

Michael winced.  “Yeah,” he said, trying to think of some excuse for his losing nearly an hour of travel time. “I…had trouble finding a cab.”

“…Okay,” Randy said.  Michael listened as the silence between them dragged on.  He hated lying to Randy, but he really didn’t want to tell him the truth...at least not until he figured out what the truth was.

“I had to get some groceries,” he added as he shut the door and hurried to the bathroom. 

His apartment was mainly one large room, the only door leading to the closet-sized bathroom.  He had a small metal table (which was really meant for a patio) with one faded office chair serving as his desk, and a tiny half wall of a kitchen with a fridge that Michael suspected had been there since the building was built in the 50’s.  Next to the door he had a closet of sorts; a hotel-style clothes rack on wheels and a hat rack that the previous tenant left behind.  Other than that, he just had his bed, which took up most of the space.  Everything, including the kitchen sink, sat under a layer of dirty clothes or graded papers or food wrappers.

“Alright, man,” Randy said slowly, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks,” Michael said, feeling guilty, and trying to unzip his pants with one hand. “Did Dr. Rogers let you back in?”

“Barely,” he said, laughing. “By the time I got back he was already half convinced it was some elaborate cheating method.  Are you going to make it to the show tonight?” Randy asked.

“I’m not sure we’re going on tonight.”

“What?  Why not?”

Ah, crap. I’m terrible at secrets
.  “You didn’t hear?  There are cops all over the place.  I think something happened after the show last night,” Michael said vaguely, trying not to sound too informed.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I heard they were taping off the whole street,” Michael said.  “Hey, I’ve really got to pee,” he added.

“I don’t care.  Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know—” he said, urinating, “Hey, I’ve got another call coming in.”

“Okay,” Randy said, “I’ll talk to you later.”

Michael answered the other call without looking at the number.  “Hello?”

“Michael?” Charlotte asked.

Michael nearly missed the toilet.  He couldn’t stop now.  He tried to pee quieter, but found that was actually not possible. 

“What’s that sound?” she asked.

“Uh…leaky faucet,” he said badly, “What’s up?”

“I had to cancel the show tonight,” she said sadly.

“Oh, why?” Michael asked, relieved that the noise had stopped. 
This is the worst day
.

“A woman was murdered in the alley last night,” she said.  Michael’s heart sank.  She had been really real.  And she really was dead. 

“Michael?” Charlotte asked, “Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m just…surprised,” he said slowly.  “Was it someone from the theatre?”

“No.  They think she was probably a…‘working girl’,” she said quietly.

“Oh,” Michael said, “That’s awful.  Are you okay?”

Charlotte didn’t answer.

“Charlotte?”

“Yeah,” she said, “I’m just…” she laughed.  “Never mind.”

Michael frowned.  Her voice was oddly high pitched; for a moment he was afraid she might start to cry. 

“I’m sorry about the show,” he said nervously.  “Are you…I’m sorry…is there anything I can do?”

“No,” she said finally, “thanks for asking.  Oh, actually, could you call Randy and let him know we won’t need him to run sound tonight?  One less horrible, awkward phone call for me.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Thanks.  Yeah, so…” she said, her voice returning to normal, “The investigator I was talking to said we could go on tomorrow, so I’ll see you then.”

“Okay,” he said, not sure what to say next.

“Oh, are you feeling better?” she asked. “I heard you got out of going to the hospital.”

“I’m feeling much better.  Thank you for asking.”

“I’m glad.  I’d hate for you to get…scared…again.”

“Did Randy tell you the pediatrician story?”

Charlotte laughed.  “Randy told everyone the pediatrician story.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“I’d love to hear your version,” Charlotte said, her voice bursting with amusement.

Michael rolled his eyes.  “I’m sure he did it justice.  I’ll just say, though, that I was 6.  I’ve heard him say I was 13 at least a dozen times.”

“You know him well!” she laughed.

“Great.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Michael.”

“Bye.”  Michael snapped the phone shut and smiled.

Then he remembered he was supposed to call Randy.  He flipped it open again as he walked to his desk and turned on the laptop.  It was propped up on an upside down wire vegetable bin.  It needed to be elevated to stay cool, and sometimes he had to put a bag of frozen peas under it to keep it from overheating while he played World of Warcraft.

“Hello?” Randy said.

“Hey, Randy,” Michael said in a business-like tone.  He wanted to get off the phone quickly before Randy started asking him questions.  A lot of people assumed that Randy wasn’t that bright because he was always joking, but Randy was intelligent enough to know that Michael had lied to him, and he knew Michael well enough to know he was hiding something.

“What’s up?”

“Charlotte wanted me to make sure you knew that the play is cancelled tonight,” he said, clicking the internet icon.

“Did she say what happened?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, “a woman was murdered.”  His computer did not respond.  Michael walked across the room to the fridge and searched in the freezer for the bag of peas.

“No way,” Randy said, “in the alley behind the theatre?”

“Yeah,” Michael said flatly, “right behind the theatre.”

“That’s crazy,” Randy replied.  There was a long silence in which Randy pondered the information in a boyish, adventure movie kind of way, and Michael tried hard to get her lily white skin and dirty hair out of his mind.

Michael cleared his throat.  “We’re going on tomorrow night, though.”

“Alright.  Hey, do you want to play tonight, then?  I bet the guys don’t have anything going on.” 

On any other occasion, Michael would have loved to play D&D.  He pressed his cold palm to his forehead and stared down at his binder full of adventure notes and character sheets.

“I don’t think so,” Michael replied, “I don’t have an adventure planned.”

“C’mon, Dungeon Master!” Randy teased. “You gotta keep your group happy!”

“I gotta pass my classes,” Michael said,
and stay sane
, he thought, as he shoved the peas under the computer and clicked the icon again.

“You suck.”

“Alright, you lead the next campaign,” Michael said irritably.

“You alright, man?  I’m just picking at you.”

“I don’t know,” Michael said with a sigh.  He didn’t like anything that was happening- it was traumatic at best, but it was lying to his childhood friend that was pushing him over the edge and into panic.  “I guess I’m still not feeling great,” Michael said apologetically.

“Did you ‘google’ it?” Randy asked.

“I’m trying to get my stupid laptop to work.”

“Ah.  Peas?”

“Yup,” Michael listened as Randy hummed the tune from Jeopardy.

“Well, this is really boring,” Randy said after a few moments.  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.  Unless you find out it’s something contagious.  Then please call right away.”

“Very good,” Michael said, and shut the phone.

The internet finally came up.  Michael had wanted to be left alone, and now that he was, he didn’t know what to do.  He folded his arms on his makeshift desk and put his head down.  His mind was fighting hard to stay in denial.  He didn’t want to be figuring out this problem.  He wished he could just remember what had happened…and wished he never would.  He wasn’t foolish enough to think he could just tell the cops the truth: “I don’t remember anything from last night” would not go over well.  He knew that if he did that, he would be a suspect.  He wondered if he had left any DNA in the alley.

He pushed thoughts of police and investigations from his mind and focused on his symptoms.  Maybe he could solve that problem, at least.  He stared at the search bar, half wishing it would just give him the answer without any effort on his part. 
Okay.  I’ll just type my symptoms
.  

Cold skin, enhanced sense of smell, enhanced sense of hearing, enhanced reflexes, and memory loss.

Google’s first few results were terribly depressing.  The first was “signs of dying”, which then listed variations of his symptoms.  The second told him he had no nervous system.  The third was a Wikipedia article explaining the senses.  Michael sighed.  He didn’t know what he expected the computer to tell him.  He looked to the right, in the ad bar, where a sparkly graphic got his attention. 

“Take our quiz to see what kind of vampire you are!”

Michael laughed
.  Great.  Google Ads thinks I’m a vampire
.  Then he stopped laughing. 

In his mind’s eye he could see those two garish red wounds ripped into her white throat.

“That’s not possible,” Michael said aloud, trying to calm himself but finding his voice filled with fear.  Slowly, as if in a trance, Michael walked to the bathroom mirror.  He pulled down his collar and stared at his reflection for what seemed like years. 

There on his neck were two perfectly round white scars.

Michael swayed with sickness and understanding.  Then the dirty, underwear-strewn bathroom floor came up to meet him.