DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 12, SECTION 14

Boldly, I began to tell the bartender who I was. "I'm A—"

"Alison," Chris cut me off. "She's, uh, Alison Travis."

He shot me a stern glance.

Whispering in my ear, he said, "You want the whole checkpoint thing to happen all over again, in New York freaking City this time? Watch it."

He was right. If word had spread that having sex with someone named Ashley Travis cured TGV, I definitely did not want people to know who I was.

I looked at the plastic container on the bar.

"Ashley Travis was, um, my sister," I lied to the bartender somberly. "She killed herself. She sacrificed herself to donate this." I tapped the container and explained how the TGVx strain counter-acted the TGV strain. I felt really bad lying about my dad's sacrifice, but if exploiting the myth that had built up around "Ashley Travis" might help treat more people, then lying would be worth it. I just hoped that someday people would learn the truth about what my dad did. I also hoped that the myth of "Ashley Travis" had spread all the way to New York.

"Bull." The bartender laughed a silly, drunken laugh. "Ashley Travis is, like, an urban legend."

The myth had spread! He had heard of me! Even in New York!

"Nope," I said. "She's real. You want me to prove it? She gave me her license before she died so when we came all the way to New York to treat positives, which was her last dying wish, people would believe us."

I showed him my driver's license. Luckily it was the same one I'd been issued when I'd turned sixteen. My maiden name, Ashley May Travis, blazed triumphantly alongside my photo. The picture was just old enough to look like someone who could be my sister.

"Holy mother of hell." The bartender dropped the bottle of Grey Goose.

Luckily it didn't break. I was going to need at least a little of it to get me through what I was planning to do next.

I rushed out onto the street, bought a gallon of milk at the nearest corner store, and hurried back into the bar. I dumped out all the milk into the big stainless steel sink behind the bar, saving the last few ounces in a clean glass.

"You said TGVx can be diluted with water," I asked Chris. "right?"

"Well, yeah." He downed the last of his vodka. "I don't see why not. Now that they've fled the amygdala, they'll pretty much thrive at any temperature. I've done some tests. Those little TGVx's are tough."

I rinsed the gallon milk container and filled it with tap water. Then I grabbed another syringe from Chris's lab coat and filled it with my dad's honey-blood. Finally, I dipped the needle into the water.

"How much?" I asked Chris. "I mean, what's the least amount I can mix into this water so it will be a potent treatment at just a milliliter or so?"

"Just a light tap of that syringe will be plenty," he said, finally realizing what I was doing.

I grabbed a permanent marker from the trove of implements in Chris's lab coat pocket and wrote across the milk container: TGVx.

"Keep this at the bar," I told the bar tender. "Don't you dare charge for it." I looked at Chris. "Now we're just going to need a ton of syringes."

"Well, actually . . . " the bartender said. "I used to be an addict... Well, 'used to.'" He air-quoted used to. "My dealer says he knows this guy Nikolai who imports black market syringes by the thousands. You want his number?"

"No," I said. "I want you to call him. Right now. Is he positive?"

"I have no doubt he's positive," the bartender laughed.

"Good," I replied. I slid the glass of milk I'd saved across the bar. I hadn't had milk in months. You have no idea how bizarrely delicious it looked to me—not quite as tempting as really good sex, but close. "Call him, now," I said. "Then," I mumbled, "make me a White Russian. Please."

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