Blood and Water (Sample)

Chapter 1: Blood in the Sink

The wallet rested on his nightstand. If the intruder had made it into the bedroom and picked up the wallet, they were bound to have laughed.

Samson rubbed against Jay's legs again as he walked through the living room. If he listened, he couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary—just the stillness of the apartment and the sleeping city beyond it. He'd lived in London pre-plague—all commotion, no rest. It was impossible to believe now. He almost couldn't remember a life without a curfew, let alone one in which people swarmed the streets, even though he'd experienced London's busyness once himself.

Before the plague, it was impossible to get anywhere during rush hour. If you tried to ride the Underground, even to the South Bank, you were going to be delayed. Even if you weren't delayed, you'd be packed into a train car with a hundred other people. You could spend a whole ride with your nose in someone's armpit or your hand against the door, trapped there by someone's buttocks.

Back in the present, Jay opened the coat closet by the door, knife poised for action. With his right hand, he pushed the coats aside.

Nothing. A wave of relief broke over him.

Still, he had more of the apartment to explore. The two-bedroom rental had been Maia's when Jay first moved to London. They'd lived there together for a while. Then, Maia moved in with a boyfriend somewhere near Shepherd's Bush. The boyfriend had died, Jay couldn't remember how long ago. Maia still lived in the apartment they'd shared. Jay's place in Bexley was modest and far enough from the city proper to be fairly quiet. Then again, in the wake of the virus, everywhere was quiet.

It wasn't a large space—two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a meager living room—but it now felt cavernous. He crossed the linoleum of the kitchen and stopped at the edge of the carpeted hallway. Fears of the unknown swirled in his head, magnifying the apartment's interior. The more he thought about how much he still had to search, the worse he felt. Instead, he tried to focus on the feeling of the knife.

Jay drew in a shaky breath and started down the hallway. The charity-store furniture in the living room fell out of his sight. What he hadn't gotten cheap had been free—hand-me-down items and castoffs from his friends. Normally, the sight of the items comforted him. In the fading sunlight, it was difficult to see. Everything cast eerie shadows on the walls, obscuring corners of the apartment. But he didn't want to risk turning on the lights for fear of alerting the intruder.

Then again, hadn't he called out right after getting home?

Idiot.

Samson padded down the hallway past Jay, oblivious to the threat of danger. The cat was safe, Jay knew. Whoever had broken into his home meant to harm him, not his pet. With any luck, the intruder would adopt Samson after killing Jay. It was the least he could do, all things considered.

His life could be in danger, and he was worried about the cat.

What was wrong with him?

Right after he'd moved to London, following in Maia's footsteps, she'd brought him the cat as a housewarming gift. Their father had been allergic to most animals, and Jay had always wanted a pet of his own. Maia chose a cat because they were low maintenance. If Jay couldn't remember to buy new milk before the old milk spoiled, there was no way in hell he could handle a dog. Then again, it wasn't as if he'd moved into an empty place—Maia would be there to take care of any pet they got, too, but she wouldn't hear another word. As much as he wanted to argue more, there hadn't been a need. Samson was everything he wanted in a pet—minus the lack of protection, of course. Then again, he'd never been in a situation like this before. There had been no need for him to yearn for protection.

Jay tightened his grip on the knife. He pushed the thought away. Focus.

A noise in the bedroom at the end of the hall made him freeze in his tracks. The floorboards creaked. He flattened his back against the wall and stood still for a minute, straining to hear any sounds of life. The silence made his ears ring.

Then, somebody coughed.

Jay clapped a hand over his mouth, not wanting to give himself away, but his throat wasn't burning. He lowered his hand, examining his fingers. No blood. His chest felt loose, too. He hadn't coughed.

The intruder. He should have known—the virus wasn't picky.

The floorboards in the bedroom creaked again as the intruder moved.

Whoever had broken into the apartment was sick because half the world was sick. It made perfect, maddening sense.

Jay swallowed hard against a wave of nausea lined with fear. At one point, contracting the virus had scared him more than the thought of getting killed. Now that he had the virus, well, it wasn't the worst thing that could happen. Basic human instinct gave him several other options.

As Jay got closer to the bedroom, there was blood spattered on the carpet. It had dripped from the intruder. He'd lost a lot of blood, more than Jay had expected.

The bedroom door was ajar. Jay nudged it with his toe.

The knife glinted as he flipped on the lights. No one was there. Jay stood in the doorway for a minute, puzzled. He'd heard somebody moving around.

Light emanated from underneath the bathroom door. Jay took a step forward.

Squish. He froze.

What the hell had he stepped on?

Blood pooled dark and thick on the carpet at his feet. It was similar in texture to the blood in the sink. There was a trail leading from it to the bathroom. He raised the knife, stepped forward, and opened the bathroom door.

His older sister, Maia, was hunched over the white sink, retching. A string of saliva stretched from her mouth. When she turned to face Jay, she had blood on her chin. Her skin, normally a half shade darker than his, was paler than he'd ever seen it. Her hazel eyes were red rimmed and swollen, glistening with tears. Her natural hair was a disaster—she'd pulled it into a ponytail but several coils had fallen out to rest against her face.

He dropped the knife. "Maia? What's going on?" "Jay," she said. "Thank God."

"How did you get in here?"

"You never changed the locks." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I didn't know where else to go."

"You walked here?"

"Does it matter?"

Jay's stomach lurched. "How long?"

"A week ago." She looked into the sink. "I'm sorry. I should have called you."

Jay leaned against the wall. His shoulders slumped. One week. Their parents had been dead in four. The less he thought about the time frame, the better.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know," she said. "I didn't want to scare you."

She hadn't wanted to scare him. That was typical Maia. Typical of both of them, really. Tears ran down her face, and her lower lip trembled. Her eyes were bloodshot with dark circles pillowed beneath them. Blood spattered her shirt.

"Jesus," Jay said. "You need help."

Maia coughed and spit something else into the sink. She wiped her mouth again. "No one here can help me."

"We'll go somewhere else, then. We'll find you a doctor."

Jay tried to think of some lead he hadn't followed yet. He'd been all over London in search of a cure. Nothing had turned up. He was running out of time.

"Doesn't matter," she said.

"Course it does," Jay answered.

Maia turned on the tap, cupped water in her hands, and splashed it on her face. Some of it dripped off her chin and landed on her chest. "I'm so glad you're immune to this."

"Yeah," Jay said, "me, too."

He'd been sick for three weeks. She would never find out.