Episode 2: A Stiff Drink

When Tom left the coroner's office and got into his car, he sat for a few minutes, trying to piece the new information into the story. Many times, speaking his thoughts out loud helped him to make sense out of them, so he started rattling off parts of the tale as he put the vehicle in gear and started away.
"So, kid goes all quiet and detaches himself from family and friends. Then, eight or so months later, guy is suddenly a cheery Casanova, goes on a 48-hour sex fest, then croaks."
Even out loud the whole story seemed bonkers. If Tom had been an outsider reading the Voice, and had seen that story, he would have gotten a lifetime subscription to the Chicago Tribune.
"And then, when we look at the little freak's fluids, he's got this weird micro-thingy swimmin' around in his blood, spit, and semen. What in God's name did I get myself into this time?"
Tom pulled into the parking garage of his apartment complex and, getting out of his car, shook his head at the sheer... strangeness of it all. When Tom got to the door, he found his best friend of 20 years, Seth Greeley, in his apartment. " Hey, Seth, don't you have a gig at that lunch club you were telling me about?" Tom asked genuinely.
"No, my dear friend, My 'gig', as you call it is tomorrow, don't you ever listen to me?" Seth faked a sob. He was always fucking around when Tom was trying to be serious.
Tom went over to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and Seth asked "what's wrong?" He had that knowing look on his face like a 'don't lie to me 'cause I'll know' kind of a thing. Tom was surprised that his stress was physically noticeable. He recounted his day to Seth, along with all the "confidential" information John had given him.
As soon as Tom was done, Seth just sat back in his seat and just said "Damn," shaking his head. Tom felt better simply by saying it to someone else and not having them laugh at him.
Even after all the weirdness of the day, Tom couldn't shake the feeling that things were not yet at their most strange. And then the phone started to ring.

*****

John Waverly was used to being the weird one. He had a lot of habits that most people found gross or disturbing, or even a combination of the two. In high school, he never had many friends, and the ones he did have either used him for help on their homework, or tried to use him to get to his extremely attractive sister, Anita, now 27. He hadn't visited her in awhile, and he thought he'd check out early to go see her. Anita lived in a fairly large, two-bedroom apartment all by her lonesome, and so she asked John to stop in as often as he could. He had always tried to be there for her and she loved him for it. Though she never told him, he was her favorite of her three siblings.

John was unbuttoning his lab coat and saying farewell to his stiffs (One of his least attractive rituals), when eight coroners assistants came in with a full load of new cadavers. "Goddammit!!" He muttered to himself.

One of the assistants approached him with a charting sheet and a grim look on his face. Taking the sheet, John felt himself go pale. All eight, female, had had sex with Christopher Brookes two days prior, the day before he died. John hurried the seven assistants that were ignorant of the situation out of the morgue, then he turned to the only one left.

"What's your name?" John asked.

"R-Roger Dettling, sir"

"I suppose whoever gave you this chart explained to you that we're dealing with something way worse than AIDS. Am I correct?"

The assistant nodded, "Y-Yes."

"What are you so nervous about?"

"I'm not nervous, sir," his lip quivered, "I-I'm tr-trying not to cry. You see, one of these girls is my sister." Roger lost it. he started to break down right there. It was okay, though, the dead don't judge. and when the kid finally got a hold of himself, John looked him in the eye.

"Hey," he said softly, " I'm sorry for your loss, but those samples won't get themselves. Can you do that for me?"

Roger nodded, starting on. While Roger was taking care of the task, John had turned the computer back on and was cataloguing the new arrivals. The assistant was soon finished and John gave him freshly printed toe-tags and told him which bodies coincided with which tags. John finished cataloguing and began helping Roger placing the cadavers in the freezers.

They soon finished, and John started filing away paperwork, simultaneously checking the labeled blood samples individually. He wanted to compare these cases with the original strain, so he spun around in his chair and asked Roger to take a fresh batch from Chris' body.

"Which drawer is he in?" the kid asked.

"Box 302."

John picked up the phone to call Tom Jennings to update his friend while he kept his unstable acquaintance busy so he couldn't think about his grief. Tom picked up on the second ring, "What's on your mind, John?"

"You might want to stop by when you get the chance. The first victims of the new micro virus just stopped in to say hi."

"Really?! I'll be there as soon as I can."

They said their goodbyes and John hung up. He continued on with the paper work and ignored the sounds of rustling clothes and the freezer door opening and shutting, writing them off as noises from a productive Roger. After about three minutes, John started to hear slurping sounds followed by the crash of glass against linoleum. He turned. "What the hell is wrong with you kid?" he yelled seeing the full back view of Roger standing over the pieces of and empty, bloodstained sample container.

"Look, Roger, I know your sister is dead, but that doesn't mean you have to drink the virus and kill yourself." Then, John noticed the stiff, awkward stance that the assistant had taken.

Concerned, he crossed the room and placed a hand on the kid's shoulder, turning him as he did so. John then found himself staring into the cold, dead eyes of Christopher Brookes.