The Citrus Syndrome

8 ; hand

Hand

Catherine

I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I'm going to die.

Sure, there's some things I would have liked to accomplish in my life that I didn't, but what's to be done about it? I'm stuck in this building full of sick people with no defense aside from this flimsy mask and a bad attitude. It's a wonder I'm not dead already.

I haven't gotten a chance to swing by Marly's office yet. Everyone keeps intercepting me each time I get halfway down the hall.

Marly's shut away in her room and doesn't seem to be planning on coming out. I don't blame her. If I wasn't just a micromanager, I'd probably be doing the same.

I need to get to the infirmary, now. We're still short a techie, and everyone knows who it is. I clench my teeth thinking about how I'm going to spit in Bo's face as he dies, simply for making me delve into the depths of our basement-turned-hospital.

As soon as I open the basement door, I know that we can add explosive diahrrea to Ye Olde List Of Symptoms. God, it stinks down here. I wrinkle my nose, tip toeing down the steps. I don't want to alert anyone of my presence, lest they remember one more thing they need me to do.

There are only ten beds, but at least thirty sick people. They lay on mats, on sheets, on the floor. They have taken over. Within the hour, they will outnumber our staff. I cringe, picking my way through the puddles of vomit, blood and waste. My heels do not approve, so I yank them off and toss them back to the foot of the stairs.

I don't look down. Some of the sick call out to me, begging for water or bandages or their mothers. One woman grabs my ankle, begging me to bring her the crying child laying three feet away from her. I stare straight ahead. I cannot touch these people, I cannot breathe their air. I need to get out.

"Cat!"

I blink hard, forcing myself not to scream at whoever is calling me now. I'm like a mother of forty. They haven't learned to wipe their own damn asses yet.

"Cat!" I roll my eyes. It's Wilson, isn't it? Of course it's Wilson. He's truly my baby. Adorable, but incredibly needy.

He appears next to me, drawing a gasp from my mouth. He's gray -- completely gray. His hair, his eyes, his fingernails; everything on him is being drained of color. Wilson, happy, bouncy, outgoing Wilson is going to die.

I want to hug him, but I set a hard expression on my face instead. I sigh. "What is it, Wilson?"

Tears glaze his eyes, threatening to spill over. "I need to talk to Isabelle," he tells me. "But Marly's door is locked. She won't let me in!"

"I don't blame her." I feel bad when I see his hopeful expression fall. "Look, Will. You're sick. Marly's healthy. You understand why she won't let you in, right?"

He nods, the movement teasing a tear out of his eye. "But I thought you could help."

"I can't help. That's Marly's choice, not mine."

"But . . ." He looks away from me, face crumpling as he fights off more tears. "You'll call her for me? Can you? Tell her that I'm so so sorry and I love her very much."

I sigh and tell him that I'll do it when I get a chance. He thanks me and I walk away before I see him cry.

I feel another hand on my leg, a familiar soft palm. I look down to find Bo lying on the floor.

I drop to my knees. He is next to a bed, lying on a mat. His girlfriend lays on the bed with the baby on her stomach. The child is either asleep or dead, and the woman sobs. Bo's grip is weak. "What are you doing down here, Bo?"

He grunts in response. He isn't as gray as Wilson, but his skin has paled. There's puddle of vomit beside his mat and a pile of bloody bandages over his bare torso. He's sweating up a storm.

"Can you talk?" I ask. He's still beautiful, even on this gory death bed of his. I brush a piece of yellow hair away from his eyes.

"Lil' bit," he groans, his eyes drifting shut.

I pat his cheek. "Stay with me," I demand. "You shouldn't have come down here."

"I know . . ." He cracks his eyes open, locking his gaze with mine. "I coul'nt . . . couldn't leave them."

I'm so tired. I haven't realized it until this moment. I just want to lay down here and fall asleep with my head on Bo's chest. I want him to hold me, sing to me until I drift off into the abyss of unconsciousness. But I can't do that because his girlfriend is here and they're both dying.

"Well now you're going to die," I inform him. "And you've got no one to blame but yourself."

His face contorts in pain. "They're -- they're working on a . . . a cure, right?"

"They're working, but it's too late. They haven't had any luck yet, and they're not going to."

Bo grabs my hand suddenly, his eyes flaring up for a moment. He gives me a pleading look. "Take care of Faith," he annunciates, wincing. "If -- if I die."

"When you die, you mean?" He actually laughs at that, but it turns into a coughing fit. "I'll take care of her."

He lifts my hand in his gray one, bringing it to his lips. Poor kid. Bo's only what, twenty seven? He deserved more than this from life.

I've been here at Ashford Research Facility ever since I graduated college. Before then, actually.

In one of my earliest memories, I am crawling across this very basement floor, running away from my older sister Marissa. We're playing tag, even though Dad says we need to walk when we're at ARF. But we never do. We like to play hide and go seek down here, darting around all the machinery and the tall wooden columns that stretch from the cold slate floor to the ceiling.

I watch Bo kiss my knuckles, wondering why he got caught up in all this. I had no choice, but he did. I glance at his girlfriend. She's turned toward us, but there's no way of telling if she's actually lucid. She may even be having a hallucination, or think she is.

Bo runs his lips along pinkie, kissing my palm. He places a kiss on each of my fingertips. I shiver, wondering why I am letting him do this. His lips feel good on my skin. I try not to let myself desire, but I can't help it. I imagine his kisses falling not only on my hand, but on the rest of my body. I imagine taking my clothes off, throwing them over the floor.

But then I think of Taya, and I stop imagining. I draw my hand away.

"You need to rest," I whisper. "Do you need anything?"

He sighs, closing his eyes. "Don't leave," he says.

"I have to. I don't want to get sick, too."

"Cat, please," he begs. "I feel . . . I feel better when you hold my hand."

His girlfriend lets out a loud sob. At this, I sigh and lace our fingers together again. Maybe she is watching. Reluctantly, I lift his arm up to her bed and take her hand as well. Disentangling my fingers from Bo's, I give the girlfriend his hand. She takes it, grasping him so hard that her knuckles go white.

"If I don't see you again," I whisper, leaning close to my infected friend. "I'm sorry. And I'll take good care of her."

And even though they're both still alive, even though the child is infected, I take her from Violet's bed and hold the small quiet figure in my arms. She's wrapped in a blanket and sweating. The mother watches as I free the baby from the flannel, draping it over my shoulder.

Bo smiles. "Bye, Cat."

"Bye, Bo."