Midnight for the Broken (4 page)

She responds with a touch of her lips that makes my face tingle. I grab her back and squeeze her into me while sharing everything that I wish and want. The moment lasts forever. She's here and we're together, and I've never felt so good.

When we finally separate, I open my eyes and she opens hers. I smile and she smiles back. “You're always so perfect,” I say.

She doesn't move her gaze. “I'll remember you forever, Ryan.”

I don't know what to talk about after that. I shift as a shudder envelops me; the hall has a draft.

“We can walk around some more,” she says.

“I wish we had more time together.”

She leans back and pulls me away from the wall. “I do too.” Then she squeezes my arm against her as we walk. She stops near the end of the hall. “That looks fun.”

She's nodding toward a poster advertising the Spring Prom. I grimace, suddenly wary of how that would work out.

“It
would
be fun,” I say, teasing. “I could have the hospital shuttle pull into your driveway.” I grin at her as an image pops into my head. “And I can see the headline now: 'Angry father shoots daughter's Broken date with shotgun.'”

Jessica laughs and pulls me closer. “My dad doesn't believe in guns. Prom would be nice. I want to dance with you.”

“We could dance now.”

Jessica sways into me. “We could. Will you take me to prom?”

I'm still worried about how it will work out, but I can't resist her. I want to spend more time with her. “Yes,” I answer. “I'll take you to prom.”

With a tiny squeal, Jessica leaps into my arms and kisses me again. I spin her around and embrace her, but a flash of light interrupts the moment. I open my eyes and see someone dash away around the corner.

Jessica insists that there won't be any problems, but worry wrenches my stomach the rest of our time together. The flash repeats over and over in my mind, etching a fear that someone took our picture. After a long goodbye, and a final healthy kiss from Jessica, I rush to my shuttle to wait, anxious to avoid any crowds or questions. I have no interest in basketball and find no joy in the raucous cheers echoing from the gym.

The lonely wait out in the cold night adds to my suffering. My thoughts are loud, like banging drums inside my head, pounding rhythmic anger with every passing moment. By the time my shuttle driver arrives, I'm glaring and hot.

“That was a great game,” he says, whistling as he unlocks the door to the shuttle.

I scramble to my seat at the back and pretend I didn't hear him. I'm not feeling friendly anymore and the sensation in my stomach is now a veritable free fall. We arrive at the hospital and I rush past the glass door entrance. I want to run up to my room, but the attendant at the front desk makes me check in first and answer a dozen questions about the game while checking my vitals. At least she doesn't take me into the Scream Room.

Finally, I'm safe in room three forty one, free from prying eyes and cameras and the world. I tear off my shirt—I feel like I'm on fire now—and open a chat session.

Nothing. Of course there wouldn't be. Jessica won't get home for a while. Still, I stare at the flashing curser and hope for a miracle. Nothing.

My worries continue through the weekend. I spend Saturday waiting by my computer, but no message comes. Nothing comes. Sunday night, I type out an entire paragraph about how good it was to see her and hold my finger above the send button, set to send it as soon as she appears in the session. She doesn't come and I'm left staring at the empty screen from my bed until I fall asleep.

~ O ~

Monday is Valentine's Day and my fears are confirmed at school that morning while everyone is sharing red hearts and hugs.

A kid I don’t know catches me in the hall before English. “Way to go, Ryan!” He slaps me on the shoulder, making me jump.

Several kids turn to look and snicker.

I keep walking, not wanting to be late. “What are you talking about?”

“This.” The kid shoves a phone in my face and there I am, in bold color, kissing Jessica against the wall. She's pointing to the prom poster.

I snatch the phone from his fingers. “Where did you get this?”

“It's everywhere,” he answers with a laugh. “You're freakin' famous.”

I don't want to be famous. I was famous when I made the push last summer to come back to high school. News stations begged for interviews and gossip magazines posted my photo next to alien ships and drunk celebrities. Being famous brought out protesters, lies and hate. Famous never brought my family back. Or Andre.

I think about smashing the kid's phone against the classroom door, but think better of it. People are staring and judging me. I have to control myself. “I thought I saw a flash,” I groan. I duck into class and slide into my seat. “When will I ever get any privacy?”

“Hey,” says the kid, poking his into the room. “This is a great picture. Who is she?”

I’d love to tell someone about Jessica, about our chats, about sneaking to her house. But not this kid. He's mocking my best moment with her. I glare back at him and fight the growl that's brewing inside of me. The bell rings and Miss Reeves promptly assigns us a new book for the week. I think I'm safe, but when I activate my tablet and see the book she's assigned, I let out another groan. Romeo and Juliette. Really? Today?

Someone says my name and a bunch of kids make kissing sounds behind my back.

“Yeah, he's a killer,” someone else snaps. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” There's uproar of laughter while my face burns.

“Ryan, did you have a good weekend?” There's a tease in Miss Reeves' voice and I know she means it in jest, but her words only add to the anger boiling inside of me.

One moment captured for the world to see and I become the focus of its mockery. Friday night, I had wanted to keep the prom poster as a souvenir. Now I want to run out of the classroom and rip it to shreds. I feel the same way about whoever took my picture.

It doesn't take long before another comment disrupts the class. Everyone is kicking, laughing and bouncing in their chairs. It seems my picture has made comedians out of everyone.

“There's proof I have a love life,” I retort at Matt, who asks if I'll act out Romeo for the school. “Where's yours?”

That shuts him up and allows Miss Reeves control of the room again, though I'm the target of her harsh scold. I don't care. I'd rather be yelled at than teased.

All day, kissing sounds and moans follow me as if someone is making out behind my back. Some kids even get dramatic and act out our kiss in the cafeteria. The girl falls to the ground and starts shaking, as if a kiss from one of the Broken sent her into deadly convulsions. Everyone roars with laughter, and even I find myself cracking a smile at the dramatic interpretation. Still, it's annoying to be the center of attention. It's like my first day back at school all over again, and I'm eager for it to end.

~ O ~

That night, there's no word from Jessica. I stare at the empty chat box for an hour, wondering if she's seen the photo. It's likely, since nowadays images transmit faster than money. There's probably a whole school in Singapore ringing with laughter at our expense.

Since there's no one to talk to, I use the time to get an extra workout. The frustration of the day gives me extra energy. I work up a sweat this time and have to catch my breath afterword. I clean up, shower, and decide to do the reading Miss Reeves assigned.

Everyone's read Romeo and Juliet before. The book was required back in junior high, so I'm annoyed that Miss Reeves assigned it for Senior English, especially today. We're supposed to memorize a paragraph, but the words are fancy and don't make sense to me. I toss the tablet at the foot of my bed and resign myself to a night of rest. Hopefully, tomorrow will be a better day.

~ O ~

Hopes and dreams are one thing, and high school is another. During another day of humiliation and mocking, my neck bleeds again. I curse under my breath when Mr. Heaps sends me to the nurse's office, though I'm partly relieved because no one can tease me there.

“You were doing so well.” Nurse Jennings grimaces when she sees me in the hall. “I had hoped you would get through the week.”

I nod my chagrinned agreement and glance behind to make sure no one has followed me. When I'm safely inside her office, I drop my backpack to the floor. “I suppose you've seen it then?” I ask.

Nurse Jennings smiles and removes a sterile needle from its wrapping. “I don't expect there's anyone who hasn't,” she tells me. She injects me near my chin and presses a bandage there to hold in the medicine. “You've become the symbol of the future for most.”

I wince. “And what am I to the rest?”

“Looks like you know that already.” She gives me another shot and opens a package of Second Skin. She's quiet as she finishes her work on me, but her mutters and pauses tell me she doesn't like what she sees. I'm about to ask her why when she speaks again. “There's another treatment for Breytazine,” she announces. “Have you heard? It's a new formula that shows promise.”

There's longing in her words and she almost whispers them. I understand why, but I don't press. New treatments now don’t help her family, or mine. Our lives have already been destroyed.

“Did Andre ever have a girlfriend?” Nurse Jennings looks at me, tears trying to break free. "He never mentioned one."

Andre and I dated plenty of girls in ninth and tenth grade, but we were so busy with basketball that we never had anyone steady. “Why bother,” we had always told each other. “There’s so much time and so many girls.” It had been a joke before, something we had laughed about in the locker room. But that was then. Andre is gone and I'm on my way to join him.

“Yes,” I answer, smiling so his mother doesn't realize my half-truth. “And many more would have loved the chance.”

My answer makes her smile and I know I've said the right thing. I can't bring my best friend back, but I can help his mother's loss feel a little bit less sharp. I remove my shirt, braving the chill in the room, and fight the discomfort while Nurse Jennings completes the rest of my examination.

“What's her name?” she asks, while entering my vitals into her tablet.

“Jessica.” I don't even think about it. I'm comfortable around Nurse Jennings. I would trust her with any secret.

“That's a pretty name.” She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. She's trying to be discreet and hasn't noticed that I've seen her. “How did I do today?”

I look at the clock. “Twenty minutes.” Was it really that long?

“I'm sorry I was so slow. Detention again?”

I nod as I put my shirt on, then stop speaking as I realize I'm in for another hour with Mr. Montrose. The room fills with silence that lingers longer than I had planned. As I turn to leave, Nurse Jennings reaches around my waist and squeezes me close. I feel her breath shaking with fear. What is she not telling me?

“Take care, Ryan.”

“I will,” I answer. “Thank you.”

She holds me for a moment and then pulls away to resume her cleanup from my visit. It feels good to know someone cares about me—I haven't known that for so long—but her reaction bothers me the entire walk back to Biology. This time, I stop in the bathroom and collect my thoughts before returning to class.

~ O ~

Three more days of detention due to bleeding officially make it one of the worst weeks of my life. Copies of the picture of Jessica and me are everywhere. One has been blown up and taped onto a big prom poster in a hall that teachers rarely roam. To add insult to me, someone had marked it with a pen. The caption reads: “Everyone is dying to go to prom. See you in the spring.”

Tyson Adler is the only player on the Viewmont football team good enough for a scholarship. To say he's proud that he's committed to Nebraska is not saying enough. The guy lives and breathes that school. From his jacket, to his shirts, to the decals on the tinted windows of his Durango, there's nothing that doesn't announce how good he is and where he's going. My usual walk from Geometry to Art takes me past the football team lockers and past Tyson Adler. When I reach him today, Tyson steps in front of me.

“What do you say, Moon?” he asks me with a snarl. “Once you're dead and gone, can I have her?”

He opens his locker, revealing a copy of the photo. A picture of Tyson covers my face. Jessica is there, leaning and embracing the soon-to-be Nebraska linebacker.

He yells at me as I shove past him. “What's the matter, Moon? Give me her number. I think we could get along.”

Someone snickers behind me and I want to turn around and throw something, but I know better. Half the football team surrounds Tyson, but he wouldn't need them to destroy a guy like me. He once busted the facemask of a running back from Davis. With bare hands, he broke the metal meant to withstand pressure of hundreds of pounds. He'd like it if I picked a fight and I'd be an idiot to take him on.

Tyson is in my last class that day, and he keeps turning around and making kissing faces at me when Mr. Johnson isn't looking. I've already earned detention, so I tell Mr. Johnson that I'm bleeding and flee to the sanctuary of Nurse Jennings' office for awhile.

~ O ~

That night, I don't bother opening a chat session. I'm not in the mood and don't know what I would say to Jessica anyway. My head hurts and I'm having trouble focusing. Even the faint florescent lights in the hospital seem too bright for anything. I turn on some music, down my medicine and fall asleep to my lonely thoughts.

~ O ~

Friday, my hospital breakfast includes two extra pills. When I ask why, the nurse gives me a flat smile and tells me they're for my new symptoms. She doesn't tell me what those symptoms are. I'm used to pills and take them like the others, but these are nothing like I've had before. The first tastes so dry and chalky, it takes two swallows of water to swallow it. I nearly cough up my lungs after swallowing the other. The drugs do their job, though, and I avoid detention at school, which makes the day better than the rest.

That night, I open a chat session. Still, there's silence. My body tingles with vigor and emotion, but there's no emotion inside of me to grasp; life wasn't meant to feel so empty. Staring at the screen doesn't do me any good, so I make my music louder than normal and take a swipe at my dummy. The blow sends it firmly against my door and shakes the wall. I feel a little better. I leap toward it and strike it again, then again, then a hundred more times. I'm feeling better. The screen is still dark. I beat the dummy over and over, and then start again.

My head is clear and the empty screen taunts me, daring me to keep going. I beat the dummy in my room until the street lights outside my window burn like the emotion that's driving me to strike. I'm sweating now; it's the first time a workout has worn me out, but I keep going. The air is fresher, my lungs feel full, and my hands and legs flash with a speed that I’ve never known before. The longer the night goes, the more I find myself moving with the rage of the songs I listen to.

I strike and blow, thinking I should stop, but my body wants more. I'm fighting the week and fighting the pain of the silent computer screen. No word from Jessica. No family. No friends to hang out with on a Friday night. I'm a freak locked in a hospital. I survive on pills and raw meat. No one cares about me, but they care about what I do, where I go and who I date.

I collapse onto my bed, barely able to breathe, but the music plays on. I shut it off—the sounds are annoying me now—and look at the time. Three in morning. Ugh. I switch off the screen and go to sleep.

Saturday, I'm energized. I wake up before my alarm and am one of the first at the hospital cafeteria. I wolf down my meal, extra pills and all, and then rush to the gym. Basketball. Normally I like to shoot around for a while before joining three-on-three pickup games, but today I feel like getting started right away. I jump into a game of older guys, infected Broken who are far more advanced in our shared condition. They are strong and tough and falling apart. One guy on my team, Glen, is missing half his face and two fingers on one hand. He's pretty good at balling though, and makes up for Steve, the tall guy we've got who can't even dunk.

We lose the first game, my shot is off, but then I feel like taking the inside. The guys we’re playing are shoving Glen around like a rag doll.

“I'm feelin' it,” I tell him. “Just feed me.”

And he does. I'm bouncing around the court, moving like I'm fifteen again and shoving my opponent like he's not even there. That surprises him and he resorts to jabbing me in back with a bony elbow. I spin around him and dunk, crashing on top of him and yelling at the rafters.

“Take that, bony,” I scream, flaunting my arms and flexing.

The others laugh and bony tosses me into the wall on the next drive. I don't care. The pain feels good and so does the battle. At lunch, the staff forces us off the court to set up for a bingo tournament.

The day feels fresh and I'm exhilarated from the sport and the chance to clear my mind. I hate living at the hospital, but it's good to be around people who don't call me names. While I'm sitting on my bed, contemplating the day, I realize that it's been twenty-four hours since I've seen the picture of me and Jessica. I hated that picture flashing on phones around me and staring me in the face around every corner at school. But as I'm sitting on my bed, it's all I can think about.

I turn on my computer and open a chat session. “Are you there?” I ask.

Silence.

“I'm thinking about you,” I say, without waiting.

“It's been a tough week. I needed you.”

Still nothing, but I keep typing.

“Hope you're okay.”

I begin to key something else and the screen flickers. Jessica has checked in. I leap from my chair and wipe my hands dry on my jeans. There's an indication that she's typing something, but nothing comes. I wait. Then as quickly as she arrived, Jessica leaves the session without saying anything.

I stare at the screen, not believing what I saw. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe I'm making things up in my mind. I had read once that people dying of thirst thought they saw cups of water in strange places. But I'm not dead yet. I saw her name. She was there.

The moment punches me in the stomach. I decide to go see her again.

~ O ~

The night seems to take forever to come and I'm on edge through dinner. I toss my tray into the garbage by accident and earn a curse from the cafeteria guard. After snatching it back from the bin, I rush up to my room and prepare to sneak out again.

Waiting for the night shift at the hospital is torture. With our specialized diets and strict sleep requirements, the night staff here is mostly cleaning crew and some emergency room nurses. I live in the only hospital for the Broken in the state. When someone's infected, this is the first place they're taken—if they're not killed first. The rest of us used to rush and watch the commotion from the mezzanine over the main entrance. Fresh meat, as we called the newly infected from above, never liked the confines of rooms. They would fight and curse and even try to tear off their own arms to escape.

No one watches anymore, but tonight when I hear screaming from downstairs, I decide to go take a look. It’s a young boy. He's lashing with yells and hisses at anyone who comes close to him.

Watching him brings back memories of my arrival here. I never wanted to come and fought it hard. I remember my dad, already infected, shoving me through the doorway and telling me this was for the best. Someone had pricked me in the back of the neck. In memory, I realize it was Daphenine, the most effective sedative against those infected with the Virus. I had slammed a guard against the window. I thought then that the glass would break, but the man bounced off it, unharmed. The hospital was prepared for people like me.

That was the last time I saw my dad. A horrible day etched into my memory forever. I had yelled every curse I knew at him while three guards dragged me into the examination room. I thought I had known pain before then. I thought my life was at its lowest point. I was wrong in the worst way.

I look back at the kid. He doesn't appear older than twelve. He's right to be afraid of this place, but I think life on the streets is probably worse for one of the Broken. Most never survive longer than a week. Those deemed treatable became permanent guests here. The others? I heard that all the Broken are cremated. No one has told me otherwise.

Someone stabs a needle into the thrashing boy's neck and that's the end of the commotion downstairs. He falls limp into the arms of the hospital guards who drag him into the Scream Room. I return to my room and lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling to wait the night away.

~ O ~

Ten o'clock comes and I'm perched at my window, watching the overnight hospital staff arrive at the parking lot across the street. There's little interaction between them; a few hellos, a couple hugs and a wave or two. While the new arrivals dawdle, the exiting staff step quickly into their vehicles and speed away. It seems no one wants to stay at this place of looming death.

Soon after, the floor nurse conducts her required bed check before settling into the station at the end of the hall. I watch her with earnest from behind a carefully creviced door and determine it's safe to begin my excursion. I tuck the scan badge into my pocket—a necessity to get back inside. Everyone on the third floor has been given one; it's the only way into the front of the hospital. What no one has thought of, and I'm not about to admit openly, is that the badge also works at the back entrance.

I'm less on edge tonight, having done this only a couple weeks ago, and am silent while I slip downstairs, behind doors, and between racks of towels and cleaning supplies until I'm safely outside. It's warmer tonight and I feel strange wearing a jacket, but I need to cover my neck. I also need the long sleeves. The skin on my arm started peeling this week.

City buses are less frequent tonight, something I hadn't planned on. I'm forced to wait on the bench for almost an hour. Watching the cars pass, wondering if they can see my face, wrenches my stomach and makes me more anxious. I'm to the point where I want to take off and run when I see the bus slowly heading my way. It hasn't completely stopped when I'm at its doors. I leap the steps, scan my fare and scramble to the back. I'm the lone passenger and the driver doesn't wait before lurching the beast forward and hurling me faster into a seat.

The ride seems slow tonight and I keep checking the clock on the television screen to see if we're behind. According to the schedule, we're on time to every stop, which annoys me. Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion tonight. Seconds churn and minutes pass between a thousand thoughts. A few miles from the stop I need, I can't take the pace any more. As a bunch of guys climb on board, I shove my way past them and take off into the night. One of them swears at me, but I don't care. I'm already running toward the shadows.

I want to see Jessica; I need to tell her about my week. While I'm darting from tree to tree to avoid headlights from passing cars, I think about her and the empty chat we shared tonight. Did she see my messages? Why didn't she answer?

The front porch light at Jessica’s house is on, but the windows are dark. I sneak around back and stare up at the window where I first saw her. My stomach twists and my heart pounds against my chest. I skip a breath and suddenly I'm not as brave as I felt earlier. I'm having a hard time standing, so I crouch near the bushes and wait for the feeling to pass.

I've never felt this way about anyone, at any time. Even when I came here a couple weeks ago, I didn't feel the same. That night, I didn't know what to expect. Tonight, I'm afraid. The week has been horrible and I don't want it to end badly. I see her name in my mind, the tiny red letters that showed up in chat earlier. I look up and the stars start to spin. Something isn't right. I don't feel right.

I try closing my eyes, but I still see the stars. They're surrounding me, swallowing me. I fall to my hands and heave in a large breath. The air seems to help fight the dizziness. I stand again and reach for the swing. Then my legs weaken and I stumble into the chain. A giant creak scratches the night as I grip the swing, trying to hold myself up.

A familiar voice calls to me. “Ryan, what are you doing?” It's Jessica.

I spin on the chain. In the darkness, I see a shadow, but she's out of focus.

“Ryan, what's wrong?”

I slip to the ground. “I don't know,” I say. “Something doesn't feel right.”

“Why did you come here? You should be in a hospital.”

“I live in a hospital.” I smile at her.

Jessica glances around. When she turns, her hair hits my face. It's wet and the water that drips onto my cheek is cold. Then the moment starts to make sense. The dizziness is leaving. I see her clearer; I see her yard and the night around her. I smell her—chlorine covers her body. She's wearing some sort of white cover up or robe.