Laurell Hamilton - Dancing

“Happening? What do you mean?”

“He’s rotting . . . he’s rotting alive and aware and the doctors can’t stop it. They have drugs that can slow it, but nothing slows it down much.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You mean that something preternatural attacked Mr. Callahan and now he’s got some disease?”

“Yes,” she said, almost a breath rather than a word.

“But they’ve seen it before, this disease?”

“Yes, they say it’s the first case outside the East Coast, but they’ve learned enough to slow it down. There’s no cure, though. I overheard a nurse call it the zombie disease, but she got in trouble for saying it. The older nurse said, ‘Don’t give it a name that the media will love.’ I heard doctors whispering that it’s just a matter of time before it hits the news.”

“Why do they call it the zombie disease?” I asked, partly to just give myself time to think.

“You rot from the outside in, so you’re aware the whole time. Apparently it’s incredibly quick, and they’ve only managed to prolong the life of one other person.” Her breath came out in a shudder.

“Mrs. Morgan, there are questions I want to ask, but I’m afraid they’ll upset you more.”

“Ask, just ask,” she said.

I took in a deep breath, let it out slow, and finally said, “You said prolong. For how long?”

“Five days.”

Shit , I thought. Out loud I said, “Give me an address, phone numbers, and I’ll tell Micah.” I started to promise we’d be there, but I couldn’t promise for him. He’d been estranged from his family for about ten years. Just because I’d have gotten on a plane for my semi-estranged family didn’t mean he’d do the same. I took down all the information as if I were sure of his answer.

“Thank you, thank you so much. I knew it was the right thing to do to call another woman. We manage the men so much more than they think, don’t we?”

“Actually Micah manages me more than the other way around.”

“Oh, is it because you’re police like Rush? Is it more about the badge than being a man?”

“I think so,” I said.

“You’ll bring Micah?”

I didn’t want to lie to her, but I wasn’t sure the absolute truth was anything she could handle; she needed something to hang on to, to look forward to while she sat and watched her ex-husband rot while still alive. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, just thinking it was terrible. I couldn’t leave her to watch it with no hope, so I lied.

“Of course,” I said.

“See, I’m right, you just say you’ll bring him. You manage him more than you think.”

“Maybe so, Mrs. Morgan, maybe so.”

She sounded calmer as she said, “Beatrice, Bea, to my friends. Bring my son home, Anita, please.”

What could I say? “I will . . . Bea.”

I hung up, hoping I hadn’t lied to her.