Jacob's Odyssey (The Berne Project Book 1) (2 page)

I noticed Alex was looking at me uncomfortably. "Doesn't seem right we're leaving with everything that's going on, Jake," he said. "People are going to need help."

I could sense Alex's discomfort. Growing up, he had always left the decision making to me, trusting that I knew what was best, and even as adults the pattern remained the same.

"Look Alex," I said softly, "There's nothing we can do for the people who are infected. And we can't prevent other people from getting infected. This thing will run its course no matter what we do. For now, we have to take care of ourselves. Later on, when things settle down and return to normal, we can help out." But even as I spoke the words, I could feel my face redden from what I knew was a self-serving rationalization.

"Maybe you're right," he said, going along with me like he always did.

"Let's just stick with the plan," I said, my spirits rising with his new found lucidity.

Since it seemed like Alex was getting better, I decided to find out what he'd had in mind with the Glock. "What's up with the Glock, Alex?"

He shrugged and looked down at his pant leg and began to scratch away at an imaginary stain. "I don't know," he said, quietly.

I kept my eyes on him and waited, not saying anything.

After a few moments, he looked up at me. He grinned awkwardly and finally came out with it, "I didn't want to turn into one of those things, Jake," he said.

"I understand," I told him, and I waited for him to finish his thought.

"I thought if it came to that, you could do something," he said, still fiddling with his pants and looking timidly into his lap. "You know, Jake, just in case. I already chambered a round."

The tenor of his voice had suddenly become almost childlike.

"Not going to happen," I told him firmly. "You're not turning into one of them. You've got the flu. That's all."

But despite my insistence he'd be okay, a part of me still worried that Alex might be infected. But even if he turned, I knew I wouldn't be able to use the Glock. And it wasn't because I didn't know how to use the weapon. I was more proficient at shooting than Alex which irritated him to no end since he was the gun aficionado and I was indifferent at best. My meticulous nature and my obsessive need for precision brought out the marksman in me.

But while I was precision personified at the range or shooting at random targets in the mountains, Alex got his due whenever we went hunting. Despite the countless times Alex had taken me deer hunting with him over the years, I never came close to hitting a thing. But it had nothing to do with buck fever. I wasn't nervous at all. I either wouldn't take the shot if it was there or I would miss on purpose. Alex knew it, but since he was the one bringing home the antlered bucks, he didn't care. There was no way I could shoot a beautiful animal like a deer, and there was no way I could ever shoot my brother.

Alex had begun vigorously rubbing his left upper arm with his free hand. "Cold as hell in here," he said, his voice trembling as he spoke.

But even with the swamp cooler on, it had to be at least seventy-five degrees in the house. Alex canted his head to the side and looked at me oddly. Then his head and shoulders began to shiver noticeably. He pulled his legs up from the floor and curled himself into a ball. "Jake, aw 'bout turn cooler off?" he asked, slurring and truncating his words. The left side of his face suddenly slackened and sagged. "Is freezin' 'n here."

I got up from the couch and went into the hallway and turned the cooler off, and by the time I had come back to the couch, Alex's eyes were closed and he was mumbling incoherently. After a while, the mumbling turned into a soft, plaintive moan. It was strange to see my brother so physically weak and vulnerable. Alex had always been so strong and vibrant. If my brother suffered from any vulnerability, it was emotional, stemming from our fractured childhood. But I had never seen him like this before. The few times he had been sick growing up, he still was active and energetic.

I told myself the fever and chills could have been consistent with the flu. I even recalled a time as a child when I had the flu and drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite sure whether I was awake or dreaming.

*****

The heat was absolutely stifling in the house, and even though it was early in the evening, the temperature outside still had to be well into the 90s. A moist filming of sweat covered my face and arms, and the pungent odor from Alex's body pervaded the room. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Not so much because of the size of the room or my proximity to my sick brother, but more from the thick suffocating odor permeating the room. I looked at Alex and realized it had been a while since I'd last seen him move. He was lying sideways in the chair with his head resting comfortably on the biceps of his handcuffed arm and the armrest. His knees were pinned to his chest and his free arm cradled his legs. He seemed so peaceful, so still, I couldn't help but wonder if my brother was dead.

I felt a little panicked and wasn't sure what I should do. Reports over the last day or so had been so sketchy, I couldn't remember any mention of the infected dying at the height of their viral symptoms. Did some of them die? I couldn't help but think that dying might be the best outcome for my brother. Alex didn't want to turn into some kind of monster and this way he wouldn't. But was I being selfish? I knew I didn't want to even think about shooting my brother if he turned, even if that's what he wanted. And what would I do with his body if Alex were dead? I couldn't take his body with me and I seriously doubted that any funeral homes were going around collecting the bodies of the infected who had died. But why was I even thinking about how to dispose of my brother's body? I didn't really know whether my brother was dead or not.

I decided to watch him as closely as I could to see if I could detect even the slightest hint of breath entering or leaving his body. But I saw no sign of movement from my brother.

I needed to slow down my thoughts. My mind was rambling in a dozen different directions at once. The only thing I was clear on was that I had to know with absolute certainty whether Alex was still alive or not. I could check his pulse, but the way he was situated in the chair, his wrists weren't exactly accessible. The right side of his neck was exposed, so I knew I could check his carotid artery for a pulse. But I was wary of touching him. I didn't know if I might get infected by simply touching him.

I called his name once softly, virtually whispering his name across the room, but Alex didn't respond. After giving it some thought, I headed to the linen closet in the hallway and found a wash cloth with enough thickness for me to feel safe. Then I went back into the living room and stood in front of the leather chair that held my brother. His mottled, grayish-white skin seemed to have thinned or tightened in some way because I could see the subtle outline of veins and arteries just beneath the surface of his skin. The weave of arteries and veins fed from his neck into his face and skull, making my brother look like a ghostly illustration from an anatomy book. And with his body positioned in a fetal curl, he looked utterly vulnerable. Leaning close to him, I still couldn't detect any semblance of breath coming from his chest or mouth.

I placed the tips of my index and middle fingers in the center of the wash cloth and placed them in the area of Alex's carotid artery. I gently pressed down and searched for even the slightest tremor of a pulse, but I couldn't feel a thing. The only thing I could feel was the intense heat from Alex's fever penetrating through the wash cloth. I pressed my fingers more firmly into the artery and closed my eyes and focused all my attention on the tips of my fingers. And then I felt it—just the slightest hint of a pulse, barely perceptible. And then I felt it again. Alex's pulse was weak, but it was still there.

I relaxed momentarily but kept my fingers pressed against his carotid artery. I wanted the tangible reminder that Alex was still alive, still with me. And while I felt relieved, I was still concerned. Alex was so weak, I wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on with his fever so high.

I continued to monitor his pulse when it suddenly vanished. My first thought was that I must have been mistaken. I must have somehow lost his pulse. I repositioned the wash cloth and searched desperately for his pulse, but I couldn't find it. No matter how hard I pressed my fingers into the area of his carotid artery, I felt nothing. And just like that, Alex was gone.

My brother was dead and I was struggling to understand how I felt about it. I kept my fingers and the wash cloth pressed against Alex's neck, hoping for a miracle. I felt deflated and numbed and completely worn out. And just as I was about to remove my fingers and the wash cloth, I thought I felt a slight vibration strum through Alex's artery. At first, I thought it was nothing more than wishful imagination, but then I felt another vibration. Then the pulses came more frequently and settled into a normal rhythm, and I suddenly felt energized and thrilled by the feel of my brother's blood pulsing through his arterial vessel. I could actually feel the movement of life within him and it excited me. I felt an incredible sense of relief knowing my brother was still alive. But just as quickly as my mood had shifted, Alex's pulse quickened and I could feel the blood in his artery thumping wildly against the tips of my fingers.

His head suddenly twitched sideways and I jerked my hand away from his neck and took a step back, the wash cloth falling silently to the floor. His head twitched again and his shoulders shivered in a short-lived spasm. Then Alex seemed to relax and I could hear a subtle exhalation of breath like a muffled hiss escape from his mouth. He was quiet for several seconds before his body suddenly stretched ramrod straight and began convulsing wildly. His legs had stretched out onto the floor and the heels of his boots kept jabbing at the oak surface, and the way my brother's body quivered with such intensity made him appear as if he were being given electroshock therapy. I had no idea what I should do for him or how to help him.

Saliva oozed from the corners of his mouth as his convulsing finally subsided into a subdued trembling. And while I felt some relief that the worst of it seemed over, a shadow of realization crossed my mind. My brother was turning. There was a part of my mind that had somehow managed to delude myself into thinking that my brother was different from all the other infected out there. No doubt I had been in denial as to what was going to happen. I had not wanted to face this moment because of what it meant for me and for Alex. And even now as his body stopped trembling and he relaxed momentarily, I stubbornly noted to myself that he hadn't actually turned yet, but then he opened his eyes.

Alex's eyes were red-rimmed and jaundiced, having taken on a sickly yellow cast, and his pupils were no bigger than a pinhead. A flicker of dull awareness registered in Alex's eyes and he looked toward me, letting out a deep, reverberating moan that echoed through the room and had me instinctively moving backwards. The sound penetrated my being and my chest contracted in fear. I managed to move slowly backwards when Alex suddenly lunged from the chair and took a swipe with his free hand at my face. He snapped back toward the radiator and stared uncomprehending at the handcuffs. I had ducked my head out of the way and stumbled backwards, tripping over my feet and landing hard with my tailbone on the end of the coffee table. I hit the edge of the table with such force, it threw the other end of the table up in the air like a teeter totter. The Glock 17 catapulted past me as I slid off the coffee table and onto the wood floor. The keys and the Ziploc bag tumbled onto my chest.

Alex reached toward me with his free hand, a desperate guttural moan rising from deep within him. The handcuffs kept him at bay, and he didn't seem to be able to make the mental connection that he was tethered to the radiator. But after his third or fourth swipe in my direction, he looked back at his handcuffed hand. He tugged instinctively at the handcuffs with his free hand before he finally began using both hands. Each tug at the handcuffs increased in intensity. And Alex kept looking back at me and moaning fretfully as if he were afraid I would leave. Then the rusted water pipe began to groan and creak from Alex's efforts. Alex had no doubt maintained some of his considerable strength.

I was on the floor on my buttocks, the handcuff keys and Ziploc bag still resting on my chest, and I began to inch myself backwards, using my hands and feet to quietly propel myself away from my brother. Each time he looked back at me, a mix of frenzy and desperate longing in his gaze, I'd stop my movements. I was afraid if I moved too quickly, he would become even more frantic in his efforts to free himself. But it didn't matter how discrete I was, because the water pipe suddenly squealed loudly and surrendered, and a wide fan of water sprayed across the room. Then Alex took one more powerful tug at the handcuffs and they slid easily off the fractured pipe. His effort created a powerful momentum that carried him backwards, off balance, and his broad back slammed hard into the coffee table, splintering the table in half as if it were made of balsa wood.

And then everything began to slow down as if I were in a dream. As Alex clumsily disentangled himself from the wrecked coffee table, I found myself unable to move. I felt my stomach and chest tremble in short, uncontrollable spasms, my legs were wooden, my mouth parched and spitless. I tried to swallow but couldn't. I seemed to have no control over my body. All I could do was watch Alex as he tried to coordinate the movement of his arms and legs. His breathing was a deep guttural rasping. He seemed puzzled and disoriented. And as I watched him separate himself from the wreckage of the coffee table, I came to the realization that I was about to die.