"You're talking crazy," he said, then paused. He had his own doubts, of course, but he didn't want to discourage her. "The cure is real. We have to ..." He trailed off, looked over at Blondie, who was still staring at him. The guy probably couldn't hear, but better safe than sorry. Thomas leaned back in to speak directly in Brenda's ear. "We have to get out of here. You wanna stay with people who pull guns and screwdrivers on you?"
Before she could respond, Long Hair was back, a cup in each hand, the brownish liquid inside sloshing as he got bumped from all directions by the dancers. "Drink up!" he called out.
Something inside Thomas seemed to wake up then. Taking a drink from these strangers suddenly felt like a very, very bad idea. Impossibly, everything about this place and this situation had become even more uncomfortable.
Brenda had already started reaching for a drink, though.
"No!" Thomas yelled before he could stop himself, then raced to cover his mistake. "I mean, no, I really don't think we should be drinking that stuff. We've gone a long time without water―we need that first. We, um, just wanna dance for a while." He tried to act casual, but was cringing on the inside, knowing he sounded like an idiot―especially when Brenda gave him a strange look.
Something small and hard pressed against his side. He didn't have to turn to see what it was: Blondie's pistol.
"I offered you a drink," Long Hair said again, this time any sign of kindness gone from his tattooed face. "It would be very rude to turn such an offer down." He held the cups out again.
Panic swelled in Thomas. Any small doubt had gone―something was wrong with the drinks.
Blondie pressed the gun into him even harder. "I'm gonna count to one," the man said into his ear. "Just one."
Thomas didn't have to think. He reached out and took the cup, poured the liquid in his mouth, swallowed all of it at once. It burned like fire, searing his throat and chest as it went down; he broke into a lurching, wracking cough.
"Now you," Long Hair said, handing the other cup to Brenda.
She looked at Thomas, then took it and drank. It didn't seem to faze her in the least; there was just a slight tightening of her eyes as it went down.
Long Hair took the empty cups back, a huge grin now spread across his face. "That's just fine! Back to dancing ya go!"
Thomas already felt something funny in his gut. A soothing warmth, a calmness, growing and spreading through his body. He took Brenda back into his arms, held her tightly as they swayed to the music. Her mouth was against his neck. Every time her lips bumped against his skin, a wave of pleasure shot through him.
"What was it?" he asked. He felt more than heard the slur in his voice.
"Something not good," she said; he could barely hear her. "Something drugged. It's doing funny things to me."
Yeah. Thomas thought. Something funny. The room had begun to spin around him, far faster than their slow turn should have caused it to. People's faces seemed to stretch when they laughed, their mouths gaping black holes. The music slowed and thickened, the singing voice deepened, grew drawn-out.
Brenda pulled her head away from him, clasped the sides of his face with her hands. She stared at him, though her eyes seemed to jiggle. She looked beautiful. More beautiful than anything he'd ever seen before. Everything around them faded to darkness. His mind was shutting down, he knew it.
"Maybe it's better this way," she said. Her words didn't match her lips. Her face was moving in circles, seemingly detached from her neck. "Maybe we can be with them. Maybe we can be happy until we're past the Gone." She smiled then, a sickening, disturbing smile. "Then you can kill me."
"No, Brenda," he said, but his voice seemed a million miles away, as if it were coming from an endless tunnel. "Don't ..."
"Kiss me," she said. "Tom, kiss me." Her hands tightened on his face. She started to pull him down toward her.
"No," he said, resisting.
She stopped, a hurt look washing over her face. Her moving, blurring face.
"Why?" she asked.
The darkness almost had him fully now. "You're not ... her." His voice, distant. A mere echo. "You could never be her."
And then she fell away, and his mind did the same.
CHAPTER 38
Thomas awoke to darkness, and it felt as if he had been put into some type of ancient torture device, nails slowly driving into his skull from all directions.
He groaned, a halting, terrible sound that only intensified the pain in his head. He forced himself silent, tried to reach up to rub―
His hands wouldn't move. Something held them down, something sticky pressing against his wrists. Tape. He tried to kick out with his legs, but they were bound, too. The effort sent another wave of pain crashing through his head and body; he went limp, moaning softly. He wondered how long he'd been out.
"Brenda?" he whispered. No response.
A light came on.
Bright and stabbing. He squeezed both eyes shut, then opened one just enough to squint through. Three people stood in front of him, but their faces were in shadow, the light source coming from behind.
"Wakey wakey," a husky voice said. Someone snickered.
"Want some more of that fire juice?" This came from a woman. The same person snickered again.
Thomas finally grew accustomed to the light and opened his eyes fully. He was in a wooden chair, wide gray tape tightly securing his wrists to the armrests and his ankles to the chair legs. Two men and one woman stood in front of him. Blondie. Tall and Ugly. Ponytail.
"Why didn't you just whack me out in the alley?" Thomas asked.