DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 10, SECTION 14

With the aid of the guy who'd volunteered to guard the cell, a burley mechanic who was tired of listening to Doug's pacing and unintelligible grunts, we cleared the doorway free of sandstone slabs just as Chris had gathered four other refugees to help hold our patient down. 

Doug fought and heaved, and even spit, but we managed to pin his limbs to the dusty floor. I found a vein between his toes, jammed in the needle, and injected my own blood into Doug's system.

He thrashed again, and I lost hold of the syringe just as I'd emptied it.

We waited, holding him down.

Five minutes passed. At the warm touch of so many human hands, he was still drooling and now dry-humping the air madly.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

"Just keep waiting," Chris said, struggling with my dad's help just to keep Doug's right arm down.

In half an hour, finally, Doug's breathing started to return to normal. At forty five minutes, his tense, rigid muscles began to relax.

His symptoms were subsiding. The TGVx pathogens in my blood were fighting off the TGV pathogens in his system.

After a little more than an hour, at last, he spoke.

"What have I done?" he sobbed.

We all backed away.

Doug pulled his huge knees to his chest, looked at us, looked at his dusty clothes, and covered his face in shame. "What have I done?" he repeated.

He wasn't cured, exactly. But he definitely wasn't a maniacal, sex craving stage-three any more.

Chris put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay," he said assuringly. "You're back with us now."

As a couple of the guys helped Doug hobble out of the cell, Chris gave me a hearty, collegial hug and smiled.

"Looks like we finally found a way to make you useful around here," he said. He shook my hand warmly. "Hell yeah, Ash!"

That afternoon, I sat with my dad in the central square, a warm fire blazing, steaks sizzling on the spit, potatoes roasting in the coals, both of us with butterfly needles stuck in our arms.

Each time one any of the TGV-positive refugees came to load up a camp plate with a meal, Chris would extract 30 milliliters of honey-blood from my arm or my dad's, alternately, and inject the refugee with a dose of TGVx. Normally, this was when Chris distributed antibiotics. But, now, he'd stopped handing them out altogether. He made sure my dad and I both had double helpings of steak, potatoes, and apples—the sweetest thing we had on hand. He hoped this would encourage the pathogen to reproduce and replenish its supply of honey as quickly as possible.

No one could be sure about the long term effects of applying TGVx like this. But, so far, most of the positives were saying they were already feeling healthier and more energetic. Many were relieved not to have to face the nightmares caused by the antibiotics. Finally, they could get a good night's sleep. For now, things were looking hopeful.

Still, as the afternoon wore on, my dad and I were feeling pretty woozy from the loss of blood. . .

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