“Yeah.”
“I’m from San Francisco originally.”
“You mentioned a mother.” He holds to his rhythm, hitting the bag. His feet move almost as if he’s dancing. “She still down there?”
“Both of my parents are, and my brother lives near them with his partner. We had Christmas together. It was nice.”
The reporting on the TV changes to traffic jams and pileups. Seems people are trying to flee the cities to escape the virus. It’s not a bad idea, but it’s obviously not an original one. Every bridge and expressway exiting a city is now bumper-to-bumper.
“I don’t have any family,” he says without prompting. This must be the getting-to-know-you stage of things. He seems willing to open up when it comes to personal information, if not cage doors.
“Do you have many close friends?” I ask.
He just shrugs. Guess the personal information stage is over already. That was fast.
Someone’s car alarm has been sounding off for about fifteen minutes now. Bizarre how no one has done anything about it. This is generally a nice neighborhood. Helicopters also keep flying overhead. It would seem the skies are busy today.
My hands are shaking again. But I’ve found any time the bars start to press in on me, some nice deep, even breathing calms things down. Having a panic attack isn’t going to help anything. Just hope I can keep it under control.
“There are people I talk to regularly and watch films with or go out to dinner or to a concert or whatever…but I’m okay just doing stuff on my own,” I say. “I guess I’ve always spent time reading or hanging out alone. Baking, crafting, taking a class or going to a museum or something. Sounds like you’re maybe the same. Comfortable with your own company.”
Nothing from him. What’s up with his cheekbones? They’re so angular. And his eyes are this incessant shade of blue. Talk about too much. Pretty people are the worst.
I pick at the paint on the iron bars. It keeps my hands busy. “You know, according to what you said, you don’t actually need me.”
“How do you figure that?”
“The epidemiologists saidalmosteveryone would die,” I say. “There are three hundred million people in this country. So your figure of ninety-nine percent still allows for a few hundred thousand to survive. That’s a lot of people. I guess some will be immune and others are hiding in bunkers or whatever. Prepping has been big for ages. They must be so excited to finally get to eat canned food and live in a hole in the ground.”
“I don’t know.” His hands don’t stop with their smooth rhythm. Thump, thump, thump. “When the alternative is dying miserably from a juiced-up version of the common cold, I would happily eat canned food in a hole.”
“You have a point. But we still don’t know if that’s what’s happening.” I go back to pacing. “Do you think it’s a biological weapon that escaped some secret lab or Mother Nature calling a halt to our bullshit or what?”
“Not a clue. We don’t even know exactly who Patient Zero is. Two cases seemed to present at the same time. One in Asia and one in Europe. And it’s not like the one in New York was far behind. Where this thing originated is still a damn mystery.”
“Hmm. But back to the point I was making about you not needing to keep me safe.”
“I am listening,” he says.
“By your own reckoning, even in the worst-case scenario, thousands of people are going to survive this. There will be others out there for you to be friends with. Many of them like-minded, forwarded-thinking souls such as yourself. Companions far better suited to the task of living in the post-apocalyptic landscape that you believe our once great nation will become. And this is wonderful news, because you can open the cage door and set me free. Which is, in essence, settingyourselffree from the staggering burden of the immense amount of guilt and shame you’ve placed upon yourself by doing this deeply and profoundly shitty thing to me.
“Dean…no one even needs to know this happened. We can just keep this whole awkward situation between you and me forever and ever, the end.”
He stops hitting the speed bag. “That was an impressive speech. It’s good that you’re thinking strategically about this.”
“Thanks.”
“Still not setting you free.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why not?”
“You’d last five minutes without catching it, out of that cage,” he says.
“I am not your responsibility. I am not youranything.”
“We need to start talking about what happens when we leave here.”
“You mean in your imaginary world where it’s okay to take me prisoner because everyone else is about to die?”
