DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 12, SECTION 13

The bar lights were on, so apparently New York was still running on some kind of emergency electricity backup system. But the notification on the TV screen said to "Stand by until service is restored." And a sign behind the bar that once read Wi-Fi password: DrunkText4Eva was crossed out and in its place someone had written: RIP the internet.

The bartender glumly filled a glass with Grey Goose, giving Chris a really generous pour, and then he kept going, filling the glass all the way to the rim.

"We don't serve doubles," he said. "We pretty much just serve quadruples. Or whatever the hell comes after that. It's the end of the damn world, man. Live it up."

The bartender poured himself a shot and downed it. Now he looked to me, expecting an order.

I couldn't believe it. Everyone was just giving up. Chris included.

But there was no way I was just going to get plastered and wait around for the human species to go extinct.

Instead of ordering, I looked the bartender over.

"Are you positive?" I asked him.

"Is that a come-on?" He laughed sourly. "Who the hell isn't, these days? Of course I am. But I just yanked it fifteen minutes ago. So, thanks, but I'm good." Then he looked at me with a glimmer of hope. "You want my number, though?"

"No," I said. "I want your forearm."

I grabbed a syringe from Chris's lab coat pocket, jammed it into the top of the plastic container, and pulled a single milliliter of my dad's honey-blood into the reservoir.

I pricked the needle into the bartender's arm.

He gave me a half smile. He didn't pull away at all. Maybe he thought I was giving him heroin or something.

I plunged the tiny dose of honey-blood into his vein.

"There," I said. "You're cured."

The bartender's eyes rolled back in his head for just a moment. He drew in a heavy breath. "Oh my God," he whispered. "I haven't felt this good since I woke up dead."

"Ashley," Chris said, faintly amused. "That was enough for literally like ten thousand people."

The bartender looked at his forearm in a state of euphoric bliss, then at me, then at Chris, who appeared the most medically authoritative in his white-ish lab coat.

"Wait," the bartender asked him. "Is she serious? Is this stuff like, a cure, or something? For reals?"

Chris had already consumed half of his vodka.

"For reals," he confirmed with a faint shrug. "I mean, you're still positive. But you don't have to worry about living out your last days as a stinky-ass rapist anymore. So you got that going for you now."

The bartender looked at me suddenly with immense gratitude, leaned over the bar and gave me a giant kiss on the forehead.

"Whoa!" Chris stood up, careful not to spill his drink. "Watch it, dude! I just said you won't have to be a stinky-ass rapist! Don't prove me wrong about that! What the hell, man?"

The bartender ignored Chris and smiled at me in a state of wonder.

"Who are you?" he asked.

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