While only five and a half feet tall, Anthony weighed about a hundred and eighty pounds. Muscular and stocky as hell, he had barely an ounce of fat on him—which meant, as unconscious dead weight, he felt like a dense, immovable boulder. So, carrying our sick friend into the E.R. required all hands on deck, naturally forcing us to abandon my car in the process.
Even after we’d checked in at the receptionist’s desk, Kevin, the oldest member of our crew, was convinced that Anthony would die. When my two other friends and I tried—and failed—to calm him down, an extremely patient nurse stepped in, ultimately spending fifteen minutes assuring him that our pal would be fine by the morning. Soon afterward, the four of us left him in competent hands and headed back to my car.
Once again, bad timing reared its ugly head. While we’d been inside, dealing with Anthony, a cop had pulled up beside my unattended vehicle. As we emerged into the parking lot, we discovered him scrutinizing the beer cans in the backseat, most of which were empty. Upon spotting Five-O, my three “buddies” immediately ditched me, which left me to fend for myself.
The policeman swiveled his flashlight between me and the beer cans on the backseat. “Is this your car, son?”
“Yes, officer. Had to bring a sick friend to the hospital.”
Ignoring my altruistic reason for being there, he let the flashlight beam linger on my face as he asked, “Have you been drinking tonight?”
“Just a little…”
“Huh. And you don’t look any older than sixteen.”
I was exhausted, the adrenaline having drained from my body once I knew Anthony would be OK. But still, that was no excuse for mouthing off to the cop over my actual age, which certainly didn’t do me any favors. In fact, it resulted in a one-way trip to jail, via the back of his police car—and a pricey impoundment of my vehicle.
As the designated driver, I’d only downed about half a beer that night, which saved me from racking up a DUI. But my parents were still pissed enough to revoke my driving privileges for a month. Luckily, it didn’t take long for my dad to forgive my transgression, but for a while after the incident, my mom would insist on administering breath checks every time I came home.
If Anthony had had his reaction a few minutes earlier than he did—or a few minutes later—we might’ve ended up at a different hospital. And if Kevin, the witless wonder, hadn’t freaked out so much, we might’ve returned to the car fast enough to avoid the cop.
Yep, it’s all about timing. And as usual, mine fucking sucks.
Clare gripped my hand, yanking me from my inconvenient stroll down memory lane.
As I gazed at the chubby ranger, whose car presently blocked our only practical exit, I shook my head. Why did everything have to be so goddamn difficult?
Chapter
8
“I’m not going to waste my time arguing with a man who’s lining up to be a hot lunch.” – Hooper, Jaws (1975)
Timing, that spiteful bitch, failed me yet again.
Just as I steeled myself to draw the Glock from my holster and calmly convince Ranger Bob to leave us alone, the sounds of retching emerged from the rear of our van. I had closed the back doors after transferring the shortwave to the hood of the station wagon, but in the glow of the moon and George’s headlights, I could tell that at least one had been reopened.
Oh, fuck. Here we go.
I suspected my mother-in-law’s infection had advanced a step. Her transformation was imminent.
Clearly startled, Ranger Bob whirled around and scurried toward the awful sounds. I doubted he would’ve moved nearly so fast had he understood what such upchucking signified.
Once again, I wondered how the hell anyone could’ve missed hearing about the cataclysmic situation overtaking the world. Had Ol’ Bob been hiding under a bush since Halloween, or perhaps crashing in a nearby ranger station without access to a television or a radio? How was that even possible?
When the puking sounds intensified, my companions and I edged around the station wagon and cautiously stepped closer to the van. I considered the possibility that I might not be Jill’s first victim after all. Perhaps the moronic forest official would have that dubious honor. At the very least, the distraction would give me a chance to safely put her out of her misery.
As I rounded the back door, keeping Clare and George behind me, I spotted Jill kneeling near the edge of the van, her head hanging over the side, a pool of black-and-red vomit on the ground below her.
“Oh, my god,” Clare cried, her voice wavering. “Mom, are you OK?”
A ridiculous question perhaps, but worry could easily wreak havoc on a human brain—even my wife’s often level-headed one.
Ignoring the outburst, Ranger Bob kept his eyes fixed on the nasty sludge creeping toward his boots. He inched backward and shined his flashlight toward my mother-in-law, courteous enough to avoid casting the beam right in her face.
As he stared at her, his eyes noticeably filled with a mixture of concern and disgust. Perhaps Jill’s unsettling display—and her obvious poor health—would tug on the ranger’s sympathies and bail us out of our latest trouble… or at least compel the ignorant numbskull to immediately vacate the premises. Avoiding a contagious disease should far outweigh the need to verify our nonexistent passes.
During the brief standoff, I glanced at the ranger’s crowded belt, which held all manner of apt tools, including a baton, a walkie-talkie, a smartphone, a sheathed knife, an encased pair of binoculars, a small canister of pepper spray, a pair of handcuffs, an ammo pouch, and, naturally, a holstered pistol. I was impressed: I wouldn’t expect a forest ranger (particularly, a round, out-of-shape one) to carry a gun.
But then
