Rogue Delivery, page 9
When the door opened he blinked and pulled his head up. A woman and a man entered, dressed business casual, with papers and pen. They sat on either side of him, leaving one empty chair between him.
“Lyndon C. Roberts,” said the woman. “Thirty-five.”
“Yes, but not thirty-five until September,” said Lyndon. He figured he ought to cooperate. The people at the CDC were supposed to be the ones to fix everything. As long as Curtis wasn’t mistaken about them. “Where’s Curtis?”
“Here,” said the man, his question ignored. He pushed the bottle of water toward Lyndon. “You have to be thirsty.”
Lyndon was, but he also had years of experience dehydrating himself to avoid using bathrooms when he hadn’t passed well. He could put off water a while longer.
“Whatever you want from me, I want to know what happened to him. Is he arrested?” And why wasn’t Lyndon? He wanted to ask what he was doing here, what the point was of holding him in this room.
“What’s your relationship to Mr. Goodman?” asked the woman.
“We met a few days ago.” Lyndon would do his best to cooperate; he had a feeling it’s what Curtis would have told him to do, and he was too tired to try to come up with anything else. “I’m a medical courier. I stopped at a drop, and he was there. Never seen him before that.”
“You’re not answering the question,” said the man. “Would you prefer a coffee? Coke?”
“I must not understand the question, then,” said Lyndon, keeping eye contact with the woman. “And no thanks.”
She smiled slightly.
“You both are very concerned with each other.”
Lyndon didn’t know why they were so interested in whether he and Curtis were screwing. Maybe it was a Georgia thing. When he realized he was frowning, he focused on smoothing his features. Better to not show irritation or anger. Instead he leaned back in the chair and breathed out long.
“Yes, we are. We’re the only two people who seem to be trying to put an end to whatever sort of outbreak is happening in Peoria, and wherever else it’s occurring. We’ve spent several days together with no one else to rely on, and now that we made it here, we’re separated and being treated like we’re the ones who did something terrible.”
The woman and man exchanged looks.
“Excuse us,” she said. They both left.
Lyndon was pissed for a while, then put his head down and tried to doze again. He hated not knowing how much time was passing or what was going on. After what seemed like hours, he got up and turned off the light, thinking he might as well try to actually sleep. He laid down on the floor and closed his eyes, and dozed until he dropped off.
When the door opened and the lights went on, Lyndon stirred, groaning.
“Lyndon?”
He got up so fast at the voice, he knocked a chair onto himself and swore.
“Curtis?” Lyndon righted himself and the chair, blinking in the fluorescent light. Curtis stood in the doorway, looking like he hadn’t slept. But he otherwise appeared okay; someone had given him a new shirt, because the coffee stains and wrinkles were gone, and he’d been given a comb for his hair at some point. “Damn, is it good to see you.”
“You, too,” said Curtis. The edges of a smile made an appearance on his face before he yawned. “Good to see you got some sleep, too. Come on.”
“I can just…go?”
“Yeah. Let’s get you some food,” said Curtis. He grabbed the bottle of water and held the door for Lyndon, who was very confused and still a little asleep.
He followed Curtis down off-white walled corridors to what looked like a cafeteria. Plates loaded with food, Curtis produced some sort of card and used it to pay for them, then led Lyndon to an empty table away from other people. It was covered in crumbs, and a spill of ketchup the size of a dime. There were windows here; Lyndon blinked at midmorning daylight.
“What’s going on?” he asked. Curtis stared at him until he started eating. The cup of fruit was okay.
“It took half the night, but they trust me. Us.” Curtis paused. He’d gotten himself a steaming cup of coffee and he hooked his hands around it like he had the paper cup of whiskey a few nights ago.
“They questioned me,” said Lyndon. He wished he could reach out and touch Curtis. “They had my driver’s license and they still got my age wrong.”
“I think they were seeing how honest we were being. Once they came back from talking to you, they started believing me more. You must’ve corroborated everything I was saying.”
“So we’re free to go? What about the cops? The Catholics?”
“As far as I understand, everything’s being handled. Your van’s even getting repaired.” Curtis had a sip of the coffee. “And we’re doing what we can about the disease.”
Lyndon put a forkful of biscuits and gravy into his mouth. He knew what Curtis was saying—he was staying here. Lyndon wondered whether that was by choice, or if he’d been given no other option. He suddenly felt like he hadn’t slept at all.
“Are you going to be able to recover the stolen vaccine?” he asked instead.
“That’s doubtful. And obviously the Catholics aren’t going to be held responsible for shit. But they won’t be allowed to continue what they were doing, and you should be off their list.”
“What about you?”
“Me, too.”
Lyndon pointed his fork at Curtis.
“Why don’t you look relieved?”
“I’m tired,” said Curtis, and had another sip of coffee.
“What a fricking lie. Of course you’re tired. That’s not why you don’t look relieved.”
Curtis smiled at him.
“You’re charming as ever.”
“I see no reason to complain. It gets me laid.”
Curtis rubbed the bridge of his nose. Lyndon shoveled more food into his mouth. Now that he’d started, he found he was hungrier than he’d thought. Lyndon watched as Curtis pulled out his keys and wrangled one off the chain. Curtis set it on the table in front of Lyndon in one of the few areas devoid of crumbs.
“What’s this?”
“The key to my apartment.”
“So you are staying here,” said Lyndon. He didn’t expect the words to come out sounding so disappointed, so bitter. He shoved more food in his face.
“I can’t leave now. But you’re going back home before you get your ass fired.” Curtis paused, reached forward, and pushed the key closer. “I have a few houseplants that could use some water. And the mail could stand to come in.”
“I kill houseplants,” said Lyndon.
“You can’t kill these. They’re bottom watered. You fill the pan underneath them and they decide how much water to drink.”
Lyndon stared at the key, not wanting to take it. But as much as he wanted to object, resist, be petty about the entire thing, he couldn’t stand to have this—this little, easy thing—be what he let Curtis down on. He took the key and pocketed it. Curtis seemed to relax some at that.
“I am so lucky you were the courier who showed up.”
“Yeah, you are,” said Lyndon. He wanted to say something nicer, but couldn’t. He shook his head. “This is it, then?”
“No. You’d better fucking be careful when you get back. You won’t be fully protected yet from that vaccine I gave you and you’d better not get sick.”
“Got it, dad.” Lyndon finished off his plate of food. “You want me to call when I get back?”
“I wouldn’t mind an email,” said Curtis. “Probably I’ll end up with a new number.”
They sat in silence after that, not moving. Curtis had apparently finished his coffee already, but he didn’t look like he wanted to get up any more than Lyndon did. After all the stress and danger of the past few days, suddenly having everything be semi-normal was difficult to process. That and the idea of driving back alone and unhurried after this.
“There’s more questions for you,” said a familiar voice, and the woman who’d interviewed Lyndon was suddenly next to Curtis. He sighed.
“Doesn’t he get to sleep at some point?” asked Lyndon.
The woman stared at him.
“It’s fine,” said Curtis. He stood. “Thanks for everything, Lyndon.”
As they walked off, Lyndon pushed back his chair and stood. This was how Curtis was leaving? It felt unfair, cold. Maybe he was afraid to act like they’d gotten as close as they had. Or maybe Curtis hadn’t ever felt as strongly about Lyndon as Lyndon had felt about him.
“I have your things if you want to get going.”
Lyndon turned, saw a different woman standing there. He didn’t know what else to do—there was nothing more for him here. He nodded, and followed her.
* * * *
Lyndon didn’t make it to Curtis’ place until after his first shift back to work. It wasn’t intentional—the moment he was back, his boss scheduled him, giving him little sleep to recover before getting back to ferrying medical samples about the area. Everything returned to normal so fast, Lyndon felt sick. Even the reports of the outbreak—less dramatic now that people were being seen to and the sources were discovered and sterilized—had become less frequent.
Life, or at least Lyndon’s life, went back to usual. He’d sent a brief message saying he’d gotten back in one piece to the email address Curtis had entered in his phone, and that was that.
Standing in Curtis’ apartment now, though, late at night after his shift, everything weighed on Lyndon. He flicked on the light, locked the door behind him, and looked around the partially-lit place. Something smelled terrible. Lyndon followed his nose to the breakfast bar, where a bagel and fish lay rotting next to a glass of pale liquid with mold floating in it. He pitched the terrible food and poured the liquid down the drain, thinking Curtis must have dashed out of here in a hurry to have not cleaned up after himself.
The apartment otherwise was tidy. Lyndon turned on more lights, located the watering can under the sink, and went through the place until he found all Curtis’ houseplants. He hauled in the mail, mostly junk, and tossed it on the counter where the old food had been. This place had air that seemed lonely, or maybe it was just Lyndon. He didn’t want to leave. Curtis had spent time here. He crossed to the couch in front of the television, turned it on, and flipped through what Curtis had been watching last. Cooking shows, it looked like.
“I miss you, you asshole,” said Lyndon. Driving back alone had been difficult. His first day back at work had been worse. And now, when he was through here, he’d go home to his untidy apartment. Alone.
Lyndon liked his space, didn’t mind sleeping alone either, but he found himself wanting Curtis right now. Somehow, he figured he’d feel better. Not so lost. He felt like his life had been upended and then returned to exactly how it was. Only he was changed now. He still dreamt of being run off the road, had woken up every morning in a motel on the way back home thinking, just for a moment, he needed to bring back hot coffee and a piece of fruit to the room.
It couldn’t hurt to send another message. He left the television on and pulled out his phone, arguing to himself that Curtis would appreciate knowing his plants hadn’t died without him. Lyndon sent a quick update and braced himself for getting home and to bed. He’d need days of extra sleep to even try to recover from everything, and putting that off wasn’t going to help. Plus he really needed to do a load of laundry.
His phone lit up, indicating a new email. Lyndon clicked on it without thinking; it was from Curtis, and it was long. He must have been typing it up while Lyndon was throwing out his spoiled food and watering his plants.
Lyndon read through it quickly, like it might disappear before he was finished with it. Curtis clearly couldn’t tell him anything about what he was working on, but he mentioned having a temporary place to stay. The Catholics had fired him, the CDC had hired him, and he’d been so busy, he hadn’t even gotten to explore the area yet. It all sounded very Curtis, although it was clear to Lyndon the man seemed more comfortable when writing his thoughts out.
Then Lyndon reached the part where Curtis mentioned it felt weird to not have breakfast with him. Right now he was eating almost everything at the on-site cafeteria, working so much he really only went to his temporary residence to shower and sleep. It had been days and he missed the lukewarm coffee and crap food. His small apartment felt empty, too, apparently, and he’d been given a day to fly back and grab some of his things. Curtis hinted at needing his testosterone as well as more clothes.
Lyndon shook his head, amused. Curtis had typed him a damned book, despite not having much free time or even doing anything with it. Normally Lyndon would have been annoyed—who wanted to read through a bunch of wordy crap?—but it was Curtis’ wordiness, and that made the difference. Lyndon couldn’t get enough of whatever random thing Curtis felt like telling him.
“I send you two sentences and you reply with a novel.” Lyndon smiled to himself. “I mean, listen to this, ‘I won’t be able to take my plants back with me, and I’m not sure what I’m doing with my apartment yet but I’d really appreciate it if you could keep watering them for now. I’ll figure something out. Let me know if you want to be paid for it. Or we can discuss it when I’m back. I owe you some drinks. Dinner, too. I have food that’ll go bad so it can be at my place.’ Wait. You are asking me out?”
Lyndon reread Curtis’ words, then skimmed even faster, mumbling aloud to himself.
“…wouldn’t mind cooking you a three-course meal and seeing if you can get impressed by anything…decent with wine pairings if you don’t mind drinking that instead of beer…have a nice sized bed, if you haven’t already noticed.” Lyndon blinked. “Curtis, you horny bastard. And yes, I noticed.”
By the time Lyndon had finished the email, his mood had improved. Curtis was coming back in a couple days, and not only did he want to see Lyndon, he wanted to spend all his time with Lyndon. For the first time since the entire chaotic incident had started, Lyndon truly believed things might be okay.
But Curtis was going to have to wait for a reply. After all, he’d left without kissing Lyndon goodbye. And Lyndon of course didn’t want to seem desperate. He pocketed his phone, smiling, and stood. Then he turned off the television, shut off the lights, and locked up behind him.
THE END
ABOUT GARETH VAUGHN
Things Gareth Vaughn is terrible at: Whistling. Card games. Writing bios. Not adopting cats.
Things Gareth Vaughn is okay at: Snow shoveling. Star Trek trivia. Writing stories. Fishing cat toys from under the couch.
For more information, visit twitter.com/gareth_vaughn.
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Gareth Vaughn, Rogue Delivery
