DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 11, SECTION 4

That evening, a few of the refugees, a group who'd spent the day gathering loose wood, built a huge fire in the communal fire pit. We'd gotten used to being chilled to the bone almost constantly, but now just about everyone living in the dwellings came to the central square to bask in the warmth. 

As I sat quietly, warming my hands, preoccupied by Ian's condition, everyone else's spirits were high. It turned out that one of the new refugees, a young guy with a beard and intricate tattoos, had worked in a restaurant in Denver. He'd made a surprisingly extravagant meal with limited resources: fillet mignon, scalloped potatoes, even roasted asparagus with desert sage. Since all of the positives had been treated with TGVx, just about everyone was feeling healthy, and many had a renewed vigor.

Chris was telling the story of our pharmacy raid last fall to anyone in his general vicinity.

"And holy fukkadillo, you should have seen Ashley!" he recounted warmly. "I was literally crapping my pants, and there she was, barefoot and in scrubs," he laughed, "blasting away with a 12-guage! I swear to God you should have seen the rangers' faces." He dropped his jaw in mock terror, then beamed and swung his arms. "The whole squad scattered like chickens in a hail storm."

Everyone laughed at Chris's goofy embellishments and looked at me with appreciative surprise. From across the square, Lindsay asked, "Did you really do that?"

I shrugged and tried to force out a half grin.

"You bet your ass she did!" Chris laughed. "Don't even try to mess with Ash. Don't even try!"

My dad sat down beside me. I could already tell that he knew, admidst all this laughter, that I was worried about Ian.

"He's gonna be okay, Ash." My dad put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. "He'll pull through. You and I both know it. He'll be back to the old Ian in no time at all."

I smiled and nodded as positively as I could.

My dad rubbed his sore arm where Chris had drawn so many pints of honey blood. "How are you holding up, kiddo? I've barely had a moment to talk to you since my head stopped spinning." 

"I'm fine," I said. "Just worried about Ian, that's all."

"What I mean is how are you feeling, sweetheart? I just . . ." His voice cracked a little as he went on. "I'm just feeling so awful that you've gotten sick. It's my fault! Those God damned undercooked eggs. . ."

"Dad," I said. "It's not your fault. Neither of us knew they were dangerous to eat. How could we have? And I feel fine, physically. Don't you? I feel just like you do. I've felt great for months."

My dad nodded. "That, at least, is a relief." Now he looked at me evenly. "I just want you to know how proud I am of what you've done here." He surveyed the dwellings' high walls, auburn in the firelight. "You've really done something important. You've saved a lot of folks, Ash."

With this, he reached out and held me in one of his dad hugs that I hadn't felt for months. I hugged him back. I had to make an effort not to cry. He always knew how to make me feel better about things, and he still did now, even while the world was falling apart all around us.

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