CHUPACABRA

Chapter Twenty-Four: I Say a Little Prayer

At Forty's request, Naila brings down two cups of coffee. She looks rather chipper with the mugs in her hand, one decorated with cats and the other a patch of daisies, even as she walks down that cold-looking hallway.

"Oh! A little Aretha today, I see," she says, tipping her head at the record player as if to say hello.

"You seem happy," Thirty-Seven snorts as he moves a red checker over. Forty quickly steals it, and he gives her a deadpan look.

"There's been no dead animals around my property lately," Naila says, starting to hum to "I Say a Little Prayer".

"That's good," Forty says, making another move that results in a chip steal. Just a few more and she'll have won for the sixth time this morning. "That means maybe the disease has run its course in the area."

"I think so. It was really only birds and scavengers. Herbivores were basically unaffected. If anything, I see the deer more now," Naila laughs, setting the two cups beside Forty's elbow.

"They most likely only infected birds, hoping it would spread to other animals through contact. They chose the wrong season, though, huh?" Even before they got to Naila's, it was obvious there were very few birds left in the woods. Most had already begun their migration for the winter. The viral agent must have only caught stragglers and the unfortunate scavengers who feed on them.

"Consider us lucky, then," Naila says, taking up the daisy mug and clinking it against the cat one. Forty takes a delicate sip, then tips it at Thirty-Seven.

"Come on," she says, smiling, wiggling the cup just enough that the hot liquid inside sloshes into an arc. Thirty-Seven scowls at her, but takes it anyways.

"So that's why you wanted a little extra today," Naila hums, watching as Thirty-Seven's face goes through a variety of emotions before landing on disgust.

"Can't do it," he wheezes, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. Forty shrugs, easily draining the rest of the cup.

"He's become a bit of a lab rat for you, huh?" Naila comments, laughing as Thirty-Seven scrubs at his tongue. He finds some human food appealing. This is not one of them.

"You could say that," Forty chuckles, leaning across the table to wipe at a spot of foam on Thirty-Seven's cheek. He immediately stops fidgeting, his eyes honing in on her.

Touch is easier between them now that they've voiced their feelings. Thirty-Seven is still rather repressed, but he won't flinch back and act like Forty is made of acid when he gives into her affection. Where she can spend hours curled into him, around him, beside him, he likes the stolen touches. He'll throw an arm around her shoulder as she reads, ruffle her hair when she's talking. Each time he successfully makes a grab at her, she'll catch him preening for a while. She doesn't comment on this, finding the habit endearing.

Those eyes go from admiring to telling her that there will be a shortage of cuddles now that she's made him try this vile stuff. As they run out of things to do, Forty makes games out of whatever she can think of. The latest is dedicated to making Thirty-Seven try human food in hopes he'll find something he likes. It's both hilarious and practical. If she's lucky enough to find a food he can keep down, then that's one less meal they'll have to get blood for. If he hates it, then she gets to see that sour face he makes when something doesn't taste right. So far, he's only enjoyed tomatoes. Forty hates tomatoes.

Naila clears her throat between the two of them, a goofy smile on her face. Unbeknownst to Thirty-Seven and Forty, she's seen this coming from the get-go. Perhaps the compound should have resorted to biological warfare sooner if it meant these two got past their emotional constipation. All it took was locking them in a room together.