The edges of Watley’s wound featured a crusty, black substance. It wasn’t dried blood, but something far different…something far worse. The skin surrounding what had once been a scratch that had morphed into a gash, was swollen and tinged a reddish-purple. Inside, there was more of the black stuff beneath a thick layer of puss, which indicated infection.

“That’s no goddamned scratch,” said Mo. He was still in full bio suit, but still kept his distance. “It’s deep.”

“I swear to Christ, though, it was a scratch at first.” Watley cleaned the cut with a sterile wipe from the cycle’s first aid kit. “It happened when I fell down the hill. I didn’t even realize the suit was torn until later.”

“You got the thing’s blood in you,” replied Mo, trailing off, trying to contemplate the ramifications. But, how could he? He had no idea what contamination might produce.

As if Watley had not considered the possibilities, he stared back at Mo with absolute dread. “What does that mean?”

Mo ignored the question while he paced around the motel room. It was on the second floor of a two-story building with intersecting wings. Below was an open parking lot with a few vacant vehicles. Beyond the lot was a highway that ran east to west and featured more abandoned and rotting vehicles.

At the window, Mo glanced out at the rear of the motel. He surveyed the few parking spaces that gave way to woods and spotted no creeping things in the shadows.

“What does that mean!” demanded Watley.

Sitting at a small glass table with two chairs, Mo shrugged. “Does it look like I have an answer?”

Gently shaking his head, Watley issued a soft “No.”

“All we can do is wait and see what happens. But if the Machine sees that…”

“What!” Snapping his head toward Mo, Watley’s breathing quickened. “What if it sees?”

Mo rubbed his eyes not only due to fatigue, but in frustration. “Why in the fuck didn’t you watch what you were doing?” Watley lowered his gaze, as if ashamed. “If the Machine sees that wound, it’ll likely take drastic measures.”

“What the fuck does that mean!”

“I don’t know…amputation?”

“Holy shit! I can’t lose my leg, man!” Watley began to hyperventilate and stood up, then winced. “Shit! It hurts. My knee’s stiff now.”

“It’s because it’s swollen. Calm down.” Mo scratched his head. “Let me think. Just keep cleaning it.” Watley sat back in his chair.

Leaning his elbows on the glass table, Mo racked his brain. The more he thought about it though, the more he understood there was nothing he could do to help Watley. Informing the Machine might be the only solution. There’d be no hiding the wound as they were required to be scanned each time they rendezvoused. Besides, before long, the entire leg would be swollen. Watley could possibly die if something wasn’t done soon to stop the spread of infection.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Suddenly a disturbing thought penetrated Mo’s thoughts. What if the infection could be contracted through the air? What if just by sharing this space with Watley, Mo’s lungs were housing miniscule particles that had flaked off the incision and been flung into the air. What if he had inhaled that shit?

Watley continued to clean the wound, discarding the soiled wipes in a wastebasket he’d gotten from the bathroom. “Jesus Christ!” He held aloft a long, glistening thread he pulled from the cut.

Mo rose from his chair and instinctively covered his mouth with his shirt. He was ten feet or so from Watley but backed farther away. Watley dropped the long piece of tissue into the wastebasket, then continued examining his wound. Mo slid against the wall, keeping his distance, while pinning his eyes on his partner. He threw his helmet on and secured it to his suit with a twist and click, then went to the door that opened into the adjoining room.

“You stay in here. I’m taking the room next-door.”

Watley looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

“I have no idea what’s going on with that wound. You could be contagious.”

Watley seemed lost in the dissection of his bizarre injury. To Mo, he seemed to be experiencing a perverse sense of wonder. Only moments ago, he had been terrified.

Mo turned the knob and the door swung into the adjoining room. After a quick search, he found the room unoccupied and shut the door. Through it, he called, “If you need me, knock. Do not barge in here. Understood?”

There was no answer at first, then Watley replied meekly, “Okay.” He sounded preoccupied. Mo imagined him poking around in that festering abscess and removing more of the slimy string-like objects.

This room was identical to the one Watley now occupied alone. Mo grabbed a chair from the coffee table, drug it over to the connecting door, and wedged the backrest under the knob. He then locked the door which lead to the hallway.

Again, Mo worried about the air. He imagined it migrating from the adjoining room into his. From the bathroom he took a towel, rolled it up and stuffed it into the crack beneath the door to Watley’s room. In a far corner he lowered himself to the ground, where he planned to sleep propped against the wall. Despite his fatigue, he couldn’t allow himself to lie on the bed. His mind conjured images of microscopic organisms living inside the mattress’s fabric and attaching themselves to his suit, where they would tirelessly search for a way inside.

Mo’s eyelids grew heavy. He clutched the sidearm in its holster to be sure it was still there. With increasingly long blinks, he squeezed the stock of the rifle, laid across his arms, one more time, before the weight of sleep became too much to bear.