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

“Come
sit?”
    Why does he want
Abe to get anywhere close to him? “I’m happy standing,” he says as
he tries to find a hook or knob that isn’t already burdened by a
harness, bridle or rope. There’s no such thing, so Abe opens the
wardrobe and slides the blazer onto an empty hanger. Half the
hangers, he notes, bear harnesses and holsters, and the rest hold
either blazers or what looks like hiking clothes—the kinds of
sturdy jackets and T-shirts sold in the windows of outdoor
lifestyle stores. He knows Steve is a bit, well, metrosexual, and
the selection of styling products and hair dye boxes on the
windowsill bears that out, but Abe didn’t expect to find a
mountain-climbing adventurer.
    Steve lets out a
long, slow sigh. Even being the next day, it’s a relief to hear him
breathe without that terrifying whistle. “The doctor told me that I
had—or have, rather—anaphylaxis. Like a nut allergy, except that we
don’t think I’m allergic to nuts.” He grins again. “Which is good,
because I’d be a little bit shattered if I couldn’t have cashews. I
can live without peanuts, though.”
    Vampirism is
better than the alternative, but it had been years since Abe was
able to enjoy cashew nuts or anything else edible. Great-Aunty
Lizzie expounded at length on just how hard it is to be a vampire
and watch a human partner enjoy the delight of eating, and it’s a
decent argument for avoiding human contact. But how can one do that
at all, when he needs a job, needs to buy blood, needs to spend
time around others? Watching breathers eat is just something he
needs to learn to deal with—in a way, it isn’t too dissimilar to an
allergy as far as avoidance goes. The consequences aren’t good if
he eats, so he doesn’t.
    He wishes, he
realises, that Great-Aunty Lizzie was wrong about everything
pertaining to breathers and vampires—just as much as he wishes that
Steve Nakamura, of all the people in the world, was the last person
to be struck by such an illness.
    “ Do
they know what triggered it?” he asks, quite sure that he doesn’t
want to hear the answer.
    He has to know,
though.
    There’s
something in Steve’s raised eyebrow that makes Abe think he knows
why Abe is asking the obvious. “Not for sure. I’ve got to see my GP
on Monday and get a referral to an immunologist, and then they’ll
find out, I hope.” Steve’s eyes meet Abe’s; his lips twist into an
apologetic-seeming grimace. “Since I wasn’t allergic to anything
before, since I wasn’t eating or drinking and didn’t get stung by
anything, they’re liking vampire venom as a cause, since it’s
apparently a common allergen, but I heard you say that last night.”
He grins. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hold off on kissing you
for a while, just in case. You can actually sit down, though, as
long as you promise to behave and not spit on me. I’d prefer not to
make it a record by ending up in hospital twice in twenty-four
hours, though. Next-door-Greg will fucking kill me. By which I mean
he’ll remind me of the hell for the rest of my life.”
    Abe doesn’t
move; he folds his arms and tries to figure out why Steve doesn’t
look the least bit reluctant, but he can’t come up with even the
remotest of sensible answers. “I nearly killed you.”
    “ Nearly made me a zombie, you mean.” Steve shakes his head and
slides just a little down the bed so that he can rest the back of
his neck against the top pillow. “I’m a carrier. Didn’t I say I got
bitten? Death is only a theoretical concept for most of us,
here—you’re not the only one.” He shrugs. “Sorry for not sitting
up. In all the chaos I didn’t fucking take my meds until late, and
I’m a bit whacked out.”
    Is becoming a
zombie any different from dying, given that there is only a twenty
percent chance one survives death with any kind of mental faculty
intact? Steve might remain Steve, just more likely to lose a limb
here and there, but more likely he will