"You must be kidding me," I muttered, staring at him like he'd lost his damn mind. "We're going to see Raphael. That's it. If—if—I deem it necessary to kill him, then you kill him. Got it? Not before. And stop drinking, dude, you're the one driving us there!"
I slapped my palm against my forehead. "My license is expired, yo!"
Jeremy looked at me like I was being the dramatic one. Then, without warning, he tilted the bottle up and flushed the rest of the alcohol down his throat like it was juice. Not a blink. Not a cough. Just pure, reckless gulping.
He finished the bottle, let out a quick breath, and chucked the empty glass into the sink behind him. It hit the steel with a loud thunk but didn't break. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then dragged that same hand down the front of my shirt.
"Dude—really?" I grimaced, brushing his sticky sleeve off me.
Jeremy smirked, a crazy gleam in his eyes. "Follow me, Omen Boy," he said, yanking open the backroom door. "Time to stop an apocalypse."
*******
The busted old van we used for camping trips and tailgate parties back in college hadn't moved in months, maybe years. But somehow, Jeremy got the engine sputtering to life with barely no effort compared to the days I had tried to get it to work.
He tugged the rusty handle and forcefully pulled open the door, jumped into the driver's seat and twisted the key into the hole. There was no response on the first try but on the second, the engines came on, puffing out a thick and dark smoke from the back.
I coughed out as it found its way into my nostril and before I had the chance to complain, Jeremy already turned on the music box. Twangy country music blasted through the speaker of the van. A music about some guy screaming about whiskey, heartbreak, and the end of the world like he knew exactly what we were up to.
Jeremy whooped the dust off the steering wheel, smacked the horn wildly. " Arthur Bruh, get in the car!"
HOOONK! HOOOONK! HOOOONNNNNKK!
He did it again and this time around, the people on the street who went about their day had their attention drawn to us. I awkwardly apologized, sneaking to the passenger seat beside the driver's seat out of embarrassment.
"Dude, why did it take you so long?"
"Jeremy, stop it!" I clutched my seatbelt like my life depended on it—which, honestly, it might. "You're gonna kill us before the virus does!"
He grinned like a psycho behind the wheel, rolling his eyes out of boredom. "If we're going out, we're going out with style."
He kick started the engines and lurched the gear to drive, swirling the wheels. The van began to move after a burst sound from behind.
"Did something just burst?" I looked down from the window. "What even is that?"
"Don't worry about it," Jeremy said, eyes on the road—or at least near it. "Could be a wrench. Could be the spare tire. Could be a raccoon. Not important right now."
"I hate you so much," I muttered, adjusting my seatbelt tighter. "I swear," I said, half to myself, "if we die in a car crash on the way to stop the apocalypse, I'm haunting you."
Jeremy grinned. "Make it a cool haunting. None of that whispering my name in the dark crap. Pop up and roast me if I screw up. That'd be funny."
"Dying in a car accident is not a joke?" I snapped, voice louder than I intended. "Our friend might be turning into something we've only seen in movies. He might be patient zero. And you're treating this like a joyride!"
His smile dropped. Just a little. "I know."
He didn't look at me when he said it.
"I know," he repeated, softer. "But if I don't laugh, I'm gonna panic. And if I panic, I crash. And if I crash—well… you said it. We don't make it to Raphael."
That shut me up. I sighed, putting one hand on Jeremy's shoulders. This must be new and rough for him. Raphael was like a brother to the both of us but more like a son to Jeremy. They got so tangled together like real friends despite their twelve years ago gap.
Jeremy's eyes turned to me in disgust and he said. "The fuck I'm not gay! Get your hands off me. Real men don't cry!"
I jerked my hand off his shoulder like I'd just touched a hot stove. "Bro—relax. I wasn't trying to cuddle you or anything."
Jeremy scoffed and tightened his grip on the wheel. "Then don't act like it. I'm fine."
"You just said if you don't laugh, you'll crash. Doesn't sound like 'fine' to me."
"I am fine," he repeated, louder this time. "You think I haven't seen messed-up stuff before? I watched my goldfish float belly-up for a week when I was six. This is nothing."
"You're comparing the possible start of a zombie apocalypse… to your goldfish dying?"
"Yep." He popped the P like it was the punchline of a joke. "Fish died, didn't cry. Raphael dies, still not crying. That's called being emotionally stable."
I side-eyed him hard. The van hit a bump in the road and we both jolted. The glovebox flew open, flinging a half-used roll of duct tape and an old bag of stale chips into my lap. I tossed them into the backseat without a word. We were getting closer to Metro Central Hospital, the tire screeched getting the van to a halt in front of the hospital.
"Battery is dead. Fuel tank is low, and we are here at Metro— Oh fuck..."
Jeremy yelled, unlocking the van and coming down. Jeremy stood frozen on the sidewalk, his jaw slack, eyes darting around like he'd just stepped onto the set of a live disaster movie. Bright camera lights blinked from every angle. Newscasters from at least three different stations stood clustered just behind the huge yellow caution tape. Microphones in hand. News vans humming nearby. People shouting into earpieces. A few reporters were already mid-broadcast, their eyes full of panic they were trying hard to hide.
"Damn…" I muttered as I stepped out of the van, slamming the door behind me.
Jeremy didn't respond. He just instinctively reached out, threw an arm around my shoulder, and led us forward like we were about to walk through a warzone.
The yellow tape stretched across the entire front entrance of Metro Central Hospital like a barrier between two worlds—normal life and whatever the hell this was. As we approached, a tall security guard in black gear raised a hand, stopping us in our tracks.
"You can't go in," he said firmly.
I didn't flinch. "We're friends of Raphael O. George. We saw the report and rushed down here. Please—we just want to know if he's okay."
Jeremy pulled his phone out from his hoodie pocket and quickly scrolled through his gallery. He held it up to the guard—an old photo of the three of us, taken just last month. We were grinning like idiots at some backyard barbecue, Raphael in the middle with his usual goofy peace sign.
The guard's eyes lingered on the photo for a second, then back at us.
"I'm not supposed to let anyone in but follow me." He sighed, pulled out a small box from the side, and handed us each a disposable mask and a pair of gloves.
"Put these on. Follow me."
Jeremy and I quickly slipped the masks over our faces and snapped the gloves onto our sleeves. He took us through another side entrance into the main hospital hall. It was way quiet inside, sick people going their usual activities by seeing the doctor and taking prescription. No fear nothing...
Maybe they hadn't been informed of this disaster happening in this hospital. He gave a fake smile to the people accompanied by a wave and went into another hallway. We followed his steps sharply and then climbed some stairs to the first room until we were there...
Room 019
I gave Jeremy a look to get his knife out when we were left alone with Raphael and he nodded his head a bit shakily. Before we could enter, we filled in some forms both from the hospital and the police station and was led to the consultation room.
"You must be his acquaintance. We actually need his parents and not friends."
"His father is late and his mom can't differentiate her left from her right, she has dementia. We are only who he has."