Re: Journal of the Plague Days, 2/4
anonymous
August 26 2012, 04:51:44 UTC
The volus who ran the store was perched on a lift behind the counter. “I’m sorry,” he said loudly and slowly to the batarian standing in front of him, “but I don’t have what you’re looking for.”
“You’re supposed to have medicine! Just give it to me.”
“Look around, Khar’shan-clan. We’re out.”
The shelves had indeed been ransacked, she noticed.
“You have to give me something!” the batarian shouted.
She reached for the pistol she always carried. Going unarmed on Omega, even a safe neighborhood like this one, was just stupid. She thought the volus caught her eye as he spread his hands. “I have nothing to give.”
The batarian snarled and lunged over the counter, but suddenly the volus had a pistol, too. “Back off, Khar’shan-clan.”
The batarian took a step back, then turned and noticed her, with her gun out as well. “Fine,” he said sullenly. “I’m going.”
“Well,” said the volus, neatly tucking his gun under the counter. “What brings you here, Earth-clan? I hear humans are staying healthy.”
She frowned. “Is everyone getting sick?”
“Seems like. And the Suns are cutting patrols.” The volus sighed. “What do we pay them for, anyway?”
“I’m not here for me, I’m here for my partner,” she said. “He wanted... well, this stuff.”
The volus took the list. “Hm. You’re in luck, Earth-clan. I still have turian goods.”
He pointed out the items on the shelves for her. She collected a good amount of basic dextro and levo foodstuffs, too. The volus nodded approvingly. “Wise choice. Good luck, Earth-clan.”
She paid and hurried back to the apartment. The streets already seemed less safe. She saw more roving groups of vorcha, heard the tinkle of breaking glass and shots fired in the distance.
When she got back, locking the door behind her, he was sitting up in bed, overheated and breathing hard. “I’ve been listening to the radio,” he said. “They’re saying it’s an epidemic, but humans aren’t getting sick. You should get out before this section gets locked down.”
“Like hell I’m leaving you alone,” she said.
“I’ll be fine.”
She put her bags of supplies aside and took his face in both hands. His mandibles flexed under her touch. He was always warm, but he was much too hot right now. “Listen. I love you and I’m not leaving you.”
She’d never told him she loved him before.
He stared up at her, eyes clear and fever-bright. “They’re saying there isn’t a cure.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said forcefully. “Tell me what to do with that stuff I bought.”
Following his instructions, she brewed soothing tea that smelled vile to her, but that he drank gratefully. She made soups and forced him to eat. She pressed cold packs to his head and neck, trying to get his temperature down. She gave him a noxiously blue syrup that seemed to ease his cough for a while.
She kept her pistol and their shotgun loaded and ready to hand, and the door locked.
As the hours went past, he got less lucid. He tossed and turned and muttered incoherently. She sat next to him, keeping watch. She set her omni-tool to chime alerts, changing the cold compresses every hour, more tea and cough syrup every four hours. Outside, she could sometimes here screaming, running, gunshots. Sometimes, the smell of smoke wafted through the crack under the door. She caught sleep in snatches between doses.
She jerked awake when she heard scrabbling and rattling at the door. The power must have gone out; she sat in the dark, and couldn’t hear the hum of the refrigerator any more. She readied her shotgun and crept forward, silently stretching out the kinks in her legs. She positioned herself in the doorway between their bedroom, where he lay coughing and muttering, and the front room.
“You’re supposed to have medicine! Just give it to me.”
“Look around, Khar’shan-clan. We’re out.”
The shelves had indeed been ransacked, she noticed.
“You have to give me something!” the batarian shouted.
She reached for the pistol she always carried. Going unarmed on Omega, even a safe neighborhood like this one, was just stupid. She thought the volus caught her eye as he spread his hands. “I have nothing to give.”
The batarian snarled and lunged over the counter, but suddenly the volus had a pistol, too. “Back off, Khar’shan-clan.”
The batarian took a step back, then turned and noticed her, with her gun out as well. “Fine,” he said sullenly. “I’m going.”
“Well,” said the volus, neatly tucking his gun under the counter. “What brings you here, Earth-clan? I hear humans are staying healthy.”
She frowned. “Is everyone getting sick?”
“Seems like. And the Suns are cutting patrols.” The volus sighed. “What do we pay them for, anyway?”
“I’m not here for me, I’m here for my partner,” she said. “He wanted... well, this stuff.”
The volus took the list. “Hm. You’re in luck, Earth-clan. I still have turian goods.”
He pointed out the items on the shelves for her. She collected a good amount of basic dextro and levo foodstuffs, too. The volus nodded approvingly. “Wise choice. Good luck, Earth-clan.”
She paid and hurried back to the apartment. The streets already seemed less safe. She saw more roving groups of vorcha, heard the tinkle of breaking glass and shots fired in the distance.
When she got back, locking the door behind her, he was sitting up in bed, overheated and breathing hard. “I’ve been listening to the radio,” he said. “They’re saying it’s an epidemic, but humans aren’t getting sick. You should get out before this section gets locked down.”
“Like hell I’m leaving you alone,” she said.
“I’ll be fine.”
She put her bags of supplies aside and took his face in both hands. His mandibles flexed under her touch. He was always warm, but he was much too hot right now. “Listen. I love you and I’m not leaving you.”
She’d never told him she loved him before.
He stared up at her, eyes clear and fever-bright. “They’re saying there isn’t a cure.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said forcefully. “Tell me what to do with that stuff I bought.”
Following his instructions, she brewed soothing tea that smelled vile to her, but that he drank gratefully. She made soups and forced him to eat. She pressed cold packs to his head and neck, trying to get his temperature down. She gave him a noxiously blue syrup that seemed to ease his cough for a while.
She kept her pistol and their shotgun loaded and ready to hand, and the door locked.
As the hours went past, he got less lucid. He tossed and turned and muttered incoherently. She sat next to him, keeping watch. She set her omni-tool to chime alerts, changing the cold compresses every hour, more tea and cough syrup every four hours. Outside, she could sometimes here screaming, running, gunshots. Sometimes, the smell of smoke wafted through the crack under the door. She caught sleep in snatches between doses.
She jerked awake when she heard scrabbling and rattling at the door. The power must have gone out; she sat in the dark, and couldn’t hear the hum of the refrigerator any more. She readied her shotgun and crept forward, silently stretching out the kinks in her legs. She positioned herself in the doorway between their bedroom, where he lay coughing and muttering, and the front room.
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