Scott Sigler: Infected

She turned back to the body and gently, ever so gently, poked the triangular growth. It felt squishy underneath the burned skin. A tiny jet of black ooze bubbled up from one of the triangle’s points.

Margaret sighed. “Let’s get rocking. Excise samples of the growth, and let’s send them out for analysis right away-the body has already started rotting, and we don’t have a lot of time.”

She picked up Dew’s Tootsie Roll wrapper, dropped it in a medical waste bin, cracked her knuckles through the large gloves, then got to work.

“That was a bullshit call!” Perry’s booming voice joined the fused protests of the other bar patrons. “There’s no way that’s interference!”

While hooting and hollering football fans packed the bar, there was a noticeable space around Perry and Bill’s table. The narrow-eyed scowl etched on Perry’s face was the same one he had unconsciously worn on the football field. The other patrons cast frequent, discreet glances his way, keeping an eye on his huge, tense form as if he were some predator that might snap at any moment.

The ten-foot projection TV screens of Scorekeeper’s Bar amp; Grill blazed San Francisco’s crimson jerseys and gold helmets along with Green Bay’s tradition-rich green and yellow. The slow-motion replay showed a perfect spiral descending toward a Packers receiver, then the 49ers defensive back reaching up and swatting the ball away.

Perry screamed at the TV. “You see that?” He turned to stare in disbelieving anger at Bill, who sat calmly sipping from a Budweiser bottle. “You see that?”

“Seemed like a good call to me,” Bill said. “No bout-a-doubt-it. It was practically rape when you look at it.”

Perry howled in protest, beer spilling from his mug as his hands moved in accordance with his speech. “Oh, you’re crazy! The defender has a right to go for the ball. Now the Packers have a first-and-ten on the friggin’ fifteen-yard line.”

“Try to keep some of that beer in the mug, will you?” Bill said, taking another sip from his bottle.

Perry wiped up the spilled beer with a napkin. “Sorry. I just get pissed when the refs decide who’s supposed to win and don’t just let them play.”

“It is a cruel and unjust existence, my friend,” Bill said. “We cannot escape the inequities of life, even in the sporting world.”

Perry set his mug on the table, his eyes focused on the screen, his right hand casually scratching his left forearm. A corner blitz swept around the left offensive end, crushing the Green Bay quarterback for a seven-yard loss.

Perry shook his clenched fist at the screen. “Take that, baby. Man, I love to see that. I hate quarterbacks. Friggin’ nancy-boys. It’s good to see someone put a snot-bubbler on the QB.”

Bill looked away and put up a hand as if to say, “Enough.” Perry smiled and drained the rest of his beer in one long pull, then scratched at his thigh.

“Beer make you break out in hives or something?” Bill said.

“What?”

“Your fleas again. You’re on your fifth beer, and with each one you scratch a little more.”

“Oh,” Perry said. “It’s no big deal. It’s just a bug bite.”

“I’m starting to wonder if we should be sitting in the same booth-I wouldn’t want to catch lice.”

“You’re a regular comedian.” Perry signaled to the waitress. “You want another?”

“No thanks,” Bill said. “I’m driving home after this. You better slow down, cowboy-you’re getting a little excitable.”

“Aw, Bill, I’m fine.”

“Good, and we’re going to keep it that way. You know how you get if you’ve had too much to drink. You’re done for the night.”

Annoyance flared at the command, and Perry’s eyes narrowed. Who the hell was Bill to tell him what to do?

“Excuse me?” Perry said. Without thinking, he leaned toward Bill, lip curling into a small sneer.

Bill’s face showed no change. “You know when you scowl like that you look just like your father?”

Perry flinched as if he’d been slapped. He sat back, then hung his head. He felt his face flush all hot and red with embarrassment. He pushed the beer mug away.

“I’m sorry,” Perry said. He looked up with pleading eyes. “Bill, I’m really sorry.”

Bill smiled reassuringly. “Don’t sweat it, buddy. You’re under control. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. I can’t talk to people like that-you especially.”

Bill leaned forward, his tone soft and supportive. “Give yourself a break, Perry. You haven’t had an incident in years.”

Perry stared off into space. “I still worry. I might slip up, you know? Not be paying attention, smack the shit out of someone before I realize what I’m doing. Something like that.”

“But you haven’t smacked anyone. Not for a long time, man. Just relax. Your sob story is bringing tears to my manly eyes.” Bill’s smile showed his understanding.

Perry thanked the powers that be, and not for the first time, that he had a friend in Bill Miller. Without Bill, Perry knew he’d probably be in jail somewhere.

Bill put his hand on Perry’s arm. “Perry, you gotta give yourself some credit. You’re nothing like your father. You’ve left all that behind. You just have to be careful, that’s all-your temper is fucked up, man, just stay on point. Now can we stop with all this sissy-boy simpering and watch some football? The time-out is over. What do you think the Pack will do here?”

Perry looked up at the screen. He let go of the small incident, let go of memories of his father’s endless violence. It was always easy to lose himself in football.

“I’ll bet they go off-tackle on this one. They’ll try to catch the ’Niners sleeping, but they haven’t been able to block the inside linebacker all day. He’s creeping up right on the snap-he better watch his ass or they’ll go play-action and throw behind him when he comes barreling in.”

Bill’s reassuring touch had started Perry’s arm itching again. He dug at it absently as he watched the Packers running back go off-tackle for two yards before the inside linebacker drilled him.

Bill took a swig of beer and stared at Perry’s arm. “You know, I understand that your protruding brow is indicative of a certain caveman mentality, but maybe you should set aside your negative feelings toward the medical profession and see a doctor.”

“Doctors are a rip-off. It’s all a big racket.”

“Yes, and I’ll bet you saw Elvis last night and there’s some great alien hookers at the trailer park down the road. You’ve got a college degree, for God’s sake, and you still think doctors are medicine men who bleed you with razors and use leeches to suck away the bad spirits.”

“I don’t like doctors,” Perry said. “I don’t like them, and I don’t trust them.”

On the screen, the Packers QB took the snap and faked a handoff. The inside linebacker took a step forward, and as soon as he did, Perry saw the opening in the middle. The QB saw it too-he stood tall in the pocket, the picture of poise, and rifled the ball into the end zone just a few yards behind the linebacker. The receiver hauled it in with a diving catch, giving the Packers a 22-20 lead with only fourteen seconds left in the game.

“Fuck,” Perry said. “I fucking hate quarterbacks.” He felt that gnawing jealousy inside, the one that always came when he watched someone blow a play he himself would have easily made. It was so hard to watch the weekly NFL battles, knowing damn well that’s where he belonged, knowing damn well he wouldn’t have just been competitive, but dominant. He silently cursed the injury that had ended his career.