Free Death is Only a Theoretical Concept by S. K. Een Page A

doesn’t mean anything at
all.
    Not that, now,
any of that matters.
    Debra pushes
open the second door, revealing the dimness that comes from drawn
shutters and a pile of abandoned clothes. Abe recognises the
T-shirt and jeans from the night before. “Steve?” Her voice is just
low enough not to waken someone deeply asleep. “You
awake?”
    Silence lingers
long enough for Abe to contemplate escape plans, and then he hears
a low, groggy-sounding mumble and Steve’s usual speaking voice.
“Just resting my eyes, Mum. Shut up.”
    Debra breaks
into a grin, clearly not believing this for a second; Abe can’t
help a returning smile. “Do you want a visitor?”
    “ Tell Jack I’ll ring him tomorrow.”
    “ What if it’s your vampire friend?”
    “ Abe ?”
    “ Go
in,” she says as she gives him a light shove to the lower back. Abe
takes an unwilling step forwards to balance, and then he’s halfway
through the door, Debra walking back down the hallway in all
apparent contentment to leave a vampire with her son.
    There’s nothing
for it but to go in, Abe thinks, but he stops just inside the door
and stares, startled despite his nerves. Steve has a small, rather
poky sort of room, but the half-drawn venetian blinds—a relief,
since it means Abe can take off his sunglasses—provide light enough
for a vampire to see the coils of rope on the floor, harnesses
hanging from wardrobe doorknobs and a collection of assorted
clasps, clips and buckles on the bedside table, along with a glass
of water and a paper prescription bag. The walls are plain, but the
wardrobe and the back of the bedroom door are covered with layer
upon layer of yellowing, curling posters—mostly half-naked male
breathers surfing, horse riding, rock climbing, bungee-jumping. Abe
nearly trips over a pair of hiking boots and the dress shoes Steve
wore last night as he takes another cautious step forwards,
bewildered by the amount of things crammed into such a small space.
A riding helmet rests on the floor by the bed. Three handguns rest
on top of wicker hamper possibly intended for laundry. A stack of
newspapers and magazines as tall as the headboard of the bed rest
propped against the far wall, a set of stirrups resting on
top.
    Steve lies
curled on top of the bed in a pair of tracksuit pants and an
oversized T-shirt, his head raised, a somewhat-damp paperback—Abe
has never heard of Gideon Haigh—shoved up against his chest.
Somehow, the idea of Steve drooling on a book while pretending not
to be asleep seems adorable, even if he looks nothing close to
adorable at the moment. Much better than last night, of course, but
tired and drawn, his gel-stiffened hair flattened into an array of
odd spikes poking out at ridiculous angles. Abe takes a step
backwards. He was right, after all, and it will be better for
everyone if he leaves Steve to sleep…
    “ Abe!” Steve sits up and waves Abe over. “Mum didn’t scare
you, did she?”
    “ A
little,” he confesses as he finds a clear place to stand near the
end of the bed. “I think I, well, now understand you a whole lot
better.”
    “ Sorry about that.” Steve’s easy grin, too, looks so much like
his mother’s, even if he looks little like her physically. “She
scares everyone, though. Chichi reckons that if we parked her out
the front her smile would ward off the feral zombies. It’s why
she’s so good as a copper.”
    Abe can’t help a
laugh at the thought of Debra Nakamura grinning at a starving feral
trying to chew on her arm, and Steve, who possibly possesses much
the same ability, laughs with him.
    “ I
was going to look up your number.” Steve yawns and slumps back
against the pillows. “It’s a bit hard to thank you properly from
the back of an ambulance.”
    “ You
don’t have to thank me.” Abe bites down on his lower lip. “I just
came here to apologise, really.” He holds out the blazer. “And give
you this.”
    “ Toss it on the pile.” Steve shrugs and pats the bed.