CHAPTER 8: ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY
9pm.
The sun was down.
The world was quiet.
Harlan and Anthony were holed up in a two-story home on the west side of town; curtains drawn, doors locked and blocked. In the dusty candle lit bedroom, Harlan alternated puffing his cigarette and taking swigs of whiskey as he sat on the edge of the bed. He was shirtless while Anthony silently dressed his chest wounds. The booze helped dull the pain, but not the anxiety.
Harlan got scratched, or sliced, or something. It was bleeding but it didn't look like a bite. That was the last thing he wanted to think of as he took another swig.
"Take it easy with the liquor, it'll take longer to heal."
"I'll go as hard as I fucking want." Harlan took a big gulp of whiskey in defiance. Anthony sighed and finished wrapping up his chest. Harlan, understandably, was not in a good headspace. Anthony asked to see his ankle, "Fine."
Some disinfectant, some more gauze, and Harlan was all patched up. But, whether or not he was infected was the million dollar question. Harlan would pay a million dollars to hear "no," even if it were a lie.
"Can I see that?" Anthony held his hand out, Harlan passed the mostly-empty bottle to him and he chugged the remainder.
"Dude."
"What?" Anthony screwed the cap back on and placed the bottle next to the bed.
"I was gonna finish that," Harlan slurred, "that was mine, man."
"You," Anthony pointed a finger at his face,"need to rest." Harlan fell back onto the bed as Anthony sat next to him.
"I'm going to die, aren't I?" His voice cracked. Anthony took a sharp breath but didn't say anything. "I'm going to turn into one of them, right?" He looked at Harlan with pursed lips, it was dark but he could see the candlelight flicker off teardrops on his face.
"I survive one fucking plague only to get killed in the next one," Harlan started to cry, quietly at first, but soon had to muffle himself with a pillow. Anthony was frozen, he didn't know what to do. After a moment, Harlan pulled his face away, taking uneven shuddering breaths as a gossamer strand of snot linked his nose to the pillow.
Harlan breathed in.
And breathed out.
In.
And out.
"Did I ever tell you why I came back home?" Harlan made a wet snort, trying to reign in the mucus as well as himself.
"You had a party, right?"
"Yeah, I did. Jenny's." Harlan waited a beat, "But I didn't come for her, I came to get away from New York."
"Oh."
"I got dumped."
"Oh, that sucks."
"Yeah, remember that friend I asked you about? Mike?"
"I do."
"He was my boyfriend. Of five years." Harlan ran his hands up and down his thighs in a futile attempt to calm himself. "He was my boyfriend of five years and he ended everything in five minutes."
"Ah."
"And-" Harlan felt tears creep into the corner of his eyes again, "And-" Harlan exhaled and covered his face for a second.
"And this whole time, Tony, this whole time I wanted to fucking kill myself."
"Oh." Harlan pulled his hands from his face and glared.
"Fucking oh?" Before he could lean into him, Harlan started crying again. Anthony felt horrible.
"I-I'm sorry, I just-" Anthony sighed, "I don't know what to say." Harlan took a long shuddering breath.
"I'm sorry, I'm a fucking mess." And he resumed crying. "I came home because I thought, I thought maybe getting out of that fucking shoebox apartment would help. And it didn't. The world is fucking over. It's fucking over and I'm over and I'm going to be one of those things."
Harlan was on his stomach, sobbing into the dusty floral-pattern comforter, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped and turned to Anthony, who reeled a bit himself before putting his hand back on his shoulder and squeezing.
"I've uh," Anthony began, "I've been dumped too, you know."
"Yeah?" Harlan sniffled.
"By a man. By many men, actually." Anthony kept his hand on Harlan's shoulder but kept his eyes trained on the bedroom door. "It was never something serious, right? Just fooling around, keeping each other company. I was… afraid I'd get fired if anyone found out, you know? And if I had a boyfriend, that's harder to hide."
Harlan felt himself calm down.
"And a lot of the guys I got close to, they just," Anthony waved his hand, shooing an unseen interloper in the room, "They weren't around any more. They got sick and died like the rest of them."
Harlan chuckled.
"In some fucked up way, it prepared us for the real end of the world."
Anthony made a dry laugh.
"Yeah, yeah I suppose it did." An uneasy silence fell over them, but it wasn't unpleasant. Anthony let his hand fall from Harlan's shoulder, who quickly grabbed it and held it with both his hands. Anthony smiled and looked into Harlan's big, wet eyes.
It was right there, in the dimly lit room with the still air and the fine layer of dust, that the two men felt closer than ever.
"Since we got that out of the way," Harlan half-joked, "do you, uh…"
"No, no I always played safe."
"Okay, I wasn't going to ask that," he took a deep breath, "but, if I look like I'm gonna… turn…"
"Yes," Anthony squeezed Harlan's hand, "I'll make sure." Harlan squeezed back.
"It figures, I find the only other living gay man in Kentucky, and it's when I'm at death's door."
"Hey, we don't know that yet," Anthony fell back onto the bed next to Harlan, still grasping his hand, "You didn't get bit."
"Yeah," Harlan didn't want to think about it any more than he had to.
"How are you feeling?"
"Scared, but you knew that."
"I meant physically."
"Oh," Harlan paused, "Well, I'm drunk so-"
"Right, right, right."
"I've felt better!" He cackled. "I hurt all over!" Another spot of silence, this time interrupted by Anthony.
"Tomorrow, we need to get the truck back and go home." Anthony laid out a simple strategy, scout the horde, draw them away, then speed off with the loot.
"Okay, but how do we distract them?" Anthony smiled.
"Have you ever seen First Blood?"