N.I.P.--Part
Two
The four of them stood in the morgue in complete silence, stunned. Sara was the first to recover, drawing herself up in quivering, barely composed outrage as she rubbed the small gauze bandage on the side of her neck. She directed her vitriol at the little dour-faced man calmly packing up his medical bag in neat, precise steps.
"I want a second opinion."
Doctor Albert Rosenfield growled. "Fine, Ms. Sidle. You're going to die in two days AND you're being a pain in the ass about it. Get with the program, sister--you ingest contaminated blood, you get infected. End of story. But then again, I guess you didn't bother reading the handbook first, did you? Let your snippy spunky girl pride rule the day and now here you are up a very smelly brown creek with no damn paddle all because you thought you'd show Count Snackula who was boss. Brilliant. Can't wait to see you take on Mr. Big Ol' Nevada Sunshine."
"Doctor Rosenfield--" David began. The pathologist glared at the young coroner, quelling him for the moment. Grissom crossed his arms and took a step forward.
"Isn't there a chance she may miss the infection?"
"Sure. And there's a chance that Sam Braun is actually a fairy princess with a magic talking pony named Cecil. But it's not too damn likely, Mr. Grissom. Draw the blood again in three hours; check the cell mutation for yourself. My diagnosis stands that Sidle's in the market for a pine box, and there's not much I can do about that at the moment. Can't even consider her for any experimental treatment until she's actually croaked and Risen," came his gruff tones.
"So that's it--I'm going to die." Sara blurted, trying to fight the quiver of her jaw. Rosenfield looked at her sharply.
"--And Rise. So you don't need a doctor, what you need is a NIP counselor, a gallon of sunscreen and a new toothbrush. Are we done here?"
Grissom shot Rosenfield a hard look that the other man deflected with a weary shrug as he spoke again. "Great. So Ms. Sidle, do you plan to kick off officially and do the relocation thing, or just die on sick leave and come to work in a whiter shade of pale? If it's the former I can write up a death certificate for you now."
"What?"
David broke in, looking determined, "She'll take the sick leave transition, Doctor Rosenfield. Thanks for coming in."
"No problem. I love to be pulled away from a winning streak at Black Jack to diagnose a run-of-the-mill case of vampirism. Kind of nice to break up my only opportunity for easy wealth." He grumbled, picking up his bag. Nobody said goodbye to him as he walked out; Grissom squared his shoulders.
"All right. Sara, as of this moment you and I are both on sick leave; I'll clear it with Ecklie. David, you seem to know the NIP network pretty well--how do we get a counselor?"
"I'll call the regional representative again and get on it, sir. And I know their first advice to you will be to read the Handbook cover to cover." David replied firmly.
From the Diary of David Phillips
Oct 25th
I can't stand it.
Sara is going to die and I can't help but feel that it's my fault, completely. If I'd been more forceful, if I'd MADE her and Grissom take this situation with the seriousness it deserved when they first learned about NIP then maybe we wouldn't be sitting on what amounts to a deathwatch for the one woman I've always considered the epitome of vitality. The irony hurts.
I've called Robbins and informed him of the situation; he's coming back early to be here. At the moment, Grissom and I will keep Sara's condition between ourselves and do our best to make her transition as easy as possible. NIP is sending a counselor sometime within a day to help out but I feel utterly helpless at this point. Sleeping is out of the question, so I've taken it on myself to begin pulling together all the supplies Sara will need: an account for blood being the foremost, along with new shutters for her apartment and window tinting for her car.
I've never actually witnessed a transformation, and I'm reluctant to ask if I can this time--it seems too personal a process, and yet I yearn to be there, if only so that Sara knows she's not alone.
It's all my fault.
Grissom's Journal Oct 25th
As I write this, I'm still trying hard to cope with all the events of the last few hours, and not succeeding terribly well. The system can only take so many shocks before shutting down and I'm afraid that my ennui of the moment is the sign that I'm near to meltdown.
Sara has been bitten by, and HAS bitten a vampire. The resulting transfer of infected blood was more than enough to contaminate her system. David paged a NIP affiliated doctor, Albert Rosenfield, who confirmed what I feared, albeit in a bedside manner completely befitting a pathologist. I cannot get used to the fact that Sara is going to die. Within the next forty-eight hours, to be precise.
SHIT!
Far too much hasn't been said or done between us, and now the moments are racing away, lost forever as we try to find what the priorities are. I shouldn't even take the time to write this, but Sara insists she needs some privacy for the few phone calls she has to make, and I have no desire to go anywhere too far from her.
Ecklie made his usual whiny protest at losing both of us for a week, but it's the least of my concerns right now. I've put David's suggestion to work and have been reading the Handbook religiously, trying to balance what I'm reading with what I'm feeling but it's difficult at best. Sara has been reading as well, albeit with a slightly distracted attention span; I suppose impending death will do that to a person.
I don't know if I can let her go.
I. don't. want. to--
***
*** ***
Sara looked over the legal pad list and crossed another job off neatly. She felt sluggish, and unable to concentrate on anything for very long, despite the growing sense of panic radiating through her chest. Hour by hour Sara sensed the mutation occurring within, leaving her breathless one minute and coughing the next, both of them symptoms listed in the chapter called Transition: what to expect and what to prepare for. Some of it she now knew by heart:
The transition of the average human to a vampire, or the Rising as it is known colloquially, is a well-recorded phenomenon. If the human is slowly being drained over time, then the transition will come once the body has lost over three quarts of blood. Since most vampires only take about a half pint at a feeding, the slow drain method can take up to 336 hours. If the human has actually ingested vampire blood, the transition is much faster; usually about 48 hours.
During the last two hours before clinical death, the body begins to shed fluid in preparation. Victims often vomit and sweat copiously. After the moment of death, the rest of the body's liquid content is flushed from the system. Many report little actual pain, and others have mentioned a heightened awareness of their surroundings just prior to Rising.
Sara was torn--she wasn't sure she wanted anyone to watch her die, but the panic at the thought of being alone kept eating at her resolve. So far she hadn't found an answer, and from the way Grissom was immovably parked in her living room, she didn't think he'd agree to leave anyway. Both he and David seemed determined to be her grim guardians--a concept that in her less lucid moments amused her.
She understood their loyalty, and empathized with the guilt they obviously felt but when all was said and done, it was her own blind anger and stupidity that had brought them all to this point. Yet when she remembered the smug sound of the vampire's voice, the awful feel of being in his thrall and unable to stop him from--
Sara growled, smacking the desktop. Across the room in the kitchen, Grissom looked up from the cup of coffee he was pouring and watched her. She rubbed her eyes.
"Sara?"
"Just--pissed. I hate this. I don't want to die, and I don't want to be afraid and I don't--"
The doorbell rang; she and Grissom looked at each other steadily, and then Sara rose and answered it.
"Hey Sara--thought I'd bring you some Norwegian Flu Remedy."
Standing on the doorstep, Greg Sanders held a large cutdown cardboard box filled with several smaller white cartons. Sara managed a sickly smile, trying hard not to laugh.
Or cry.
"This is Chinese food."
"The Norwegians believe all cultures contribute to one's well-being. Besides, from the way you look right now, I don't think a big pot of fisksuppe is gonna go down too good."
Sara did laugh at that, waving him in and shooting Grissom a quick glance. Greg noticed him a second before setting the box down on the counter. "Grissom--I thought you were sick too." He commented neutrally.
"I am. I have Ecklie-itis," he rumbled, distracting Greg long enough for Sara to deal with a bout of coughing. It was wet and rattled through her chest; Greg took a step towards her.
"Sara?"
"It's okay. I'm . . . not contagious, but it's a little rough," she confessed, knowing he'd never really understand her words. Greg shifted a little, caught between Sara and Grissom, wanting to comfort her and not quite sure how. Sara made it easy on him and pulled Greg into a quick hug under Grissom's sad gaze.
"Hey, this was really thoughtful, really. You even got the vegetarian rolls too-- but you need to go, Greg. I'm afraid I'm going to need to lie down soon, you know?"
"Um, yeah, Okay--" he replied gently, his reluctance apparent. For a moment, Sara clung to him, and Grissom could see the anguish on her face over Greg's bony shoulder, the quick mask of grief at not being able to say what her heart so obviously felt. He dropped his gaze.
Greg patted her back and stepped away, sending a look at Grissom that spoke volumes. He nodded in return, and Greg relaxed a bit.
"Okay then. See you in a few days or so, right?"
"You bet--" Sara bit her lips, then forced herself to smile. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
***
*** ***
The doorbell rang again; this time Grissom answered it, not expecting to see the bundled up woman standing on the doorstep looking at him with bright, bird-like eyes. She dipped her head and managed a smile at him.
"Hey Trader," she intoned softly, her cadence still quick and syncopated. "I heard from over the sun and under the moon th-th-that a new secret's coming out. Here to help, here to help."
"Cassie James." Grissom croaked, for once completely flummoxed. She straightened up, and for the first time it dawned on him that all her clothing was rumpled but clean, and that the many layers did more than just let her blend in to the background. She stood on the other side of the mat, waiting, pulling her cap off of her dark, glossy hair.
"Once upon a time yeah, but I shifted." She added, meeting his gaze. He noted a tint of red in her eyes, a focus that hadn't been there the last time he'd seen her dragging her shopping cart up the street. Grissom stared at her.
"You're a vampire."
"The dead don't bleed," she replied with a calm reserve. "Went from a left-behind person to the most perfect sleep."
That echoed in his head, and Grissom nodded. Behind his shoulder Sara came up and looked at Cassie in recognition. Cassie looked down at the doormat, waiting.
"Come in--" Sara murmured, suddenly understanding. Invited now, Cassie stepped over the threshold, glancing back at her cart. Grissom glanced at it too.
"Want me to bring it in?"
"Sugar on top." She replied, nodding. Turning to Sara Cassie cocked her head again and looked at her appraisingly, her dark eyes compassionate. "C-c-close to time."
"How close?" Sara demanded, alarmed at the woman's tone and feeling weaker. Cassie reached out a small fine-boned hand and patted Sara's arm in light little touches.
"Cocoon is cracking, you can feel that. Not long, not long but there's time to say g-g-goodbye, Sara. See things, people, look at the sun a last time little caterpillar. Almost time to be a dark moth."
Sara shot Grissom a worried look that spoke volumes about entrusting her transition to a vampire bag lady, but Grissom was rolling a Phillip's Pharmacy shopping cart in and didn't see. Cassie did though, and spoke again, softly.
"If you go out, take a garbage bag in case you vomit. W-when you feel the sweating start, get back here to home. I have plastic, b-b-but it's better if you're in the tub."
Helplessly, Sara turned to Grissom. He met her desperate look with a calmness he didn't feel.
"Want to go for a walk?"
The little park beyond Sara's apartment complex was barely worthy of the name; just a few scrubby trees and a cement path that led through a playground. Sara numbly led the way, moving off the sidewalk to the swings. It was late afternoon; the transition time after school but before dinner--the commute hour. Only a few people were about, mostly walking dogs. The playground itself was empty. Sara sat in the curved rubber seat of the nearest swing and turned her face up into the golden sunlight, wincing. Grissom leaned against one of the poles and watched her.
"Does it . . . hurt?" he finally asked, in a curious, husky tone. Sara shook her head.
"It feels sort of good. Like the heat is seeping in very, very deep. Like when you leave an arm or a leg too close to the heater or the fire and it absorbs that warmth without getting burned, you know?"
Grissom nodded to show yes, he knew. They were silent again, and Sara twisted a little in the swing, her feet drawing aimless patterns in the sand.
"Grissom?"
"Sara--" he responded patiently. She looked up, flashing him a smile that took him back through the years in an instant; a reckless, Sara Sidle grin of gapped teeth and sweet admiration. Grissom felt the responding pang resonate hard in his chest.
"You don't really believe I'm going to come back, do you?"
It was out in the open now, her gentle accusation. Grissom stepped nearer, and dropped to a squat to look her in the eye as Sara sat in the swing. They both reached, hands connecting in a cool clasp. He kept his gaze on her.
"I don't know. I . . . want you to come back." He muttered, knowing he must look as bleak as he felt. Sara reached her free hand down and hesitated on the verge of touching his cheek. Grissom closed his eyes, and she did; the cool of her palm on the soft fur of his beard along his jaw line. A small laugh bubbled out of her.
"There's so much here. I think we both know that. And now--" she cocked her head in an uncanny imitation of him, "The time's all gone. All the waiting, and denying and pretending. For nothing. I'm going to die, and who's to say I'll be the same if I DO rise."
He blinked hard, fighting the pain. Sara shook her head gently.
"Damn it. We could have been so good, Grissom."
He nodded slowly, his grip on her fingers very tight. "I know that now."
Sara nodded, and for a long moment they looked at their linked hands in the golden light bleeding across the sky.
By the time they made it back to the apartment, Sara was shivering hard. Grissom had an arm around her waist, half-carrying her as they stepped into the doorway. Cassie was there, helping them in, looking over Sara carefully. She gave a knowing nod.
"Time. Into the tub."
David rose from the sofa, but Cassie shook her head, guiding Sara towards the bathroom. Grissom got a vague impression of blue and white décor, but Sara was shuddering now, her hairline wet and long strands plastered to her skull and his attention was on her. Cassie helped her into the tub, and began tugging off Sara's sweatpants. She struggled feebly.
"Hey!"
"S-s-sorry, but have to--" Cassie tried to soothe her, peeling Sara out of the pants. Grissom shifted miserably, knowing he should leave and unable to make his feet comply. Sara clung to Cassie's arm as the woman lowered her into the tub.
"Grissom!"
"Here--" He moved forward, seeing Sara in her blue tee-shirt and panties, huddled in the cold porcelain tub. She was sweating in earnest, the shirt clinging to her breasts and ribs. Grissom knelt by the tub and gripped her arm. Cassie reached over and stroked Sara's forehead.
"Last flush, going, going, draining away Sara." She murmured, lisping a little. Out of the corner of his eye, Grissom realized numbly that Cassie's fangs were out now, clearly visible against her bottom lip and making her lisp a bit. He tightened his fingers around Sara's thin, wet wrist.
Sara gasped in tight choked gulps of air, her spine arching, thrusting her chest up as she tried to breathe. Grissom shifted his grip to her shoulders, holding them steady as she flailed, striving for air. A sudden flush of sweat cascaded along her skin, and she opened her brown eyes wide; searching for, finding Grissom. Cassie nudged him hard between his shoulder blades.
"Backwards prince charming. Kiss her to sleep."
Panic rising, Grissom pulled Sara to him at the edge of the tub, and she reached wet hands to his face, blindly seeking his mouth. They kissed awkwardly, teeth clashing, slipping and pressing as best they could, and a few seconds later, Grissom felt the moment she stopped.
Stopped kissing.
Stopped pushing.
Stopped sweating.
Stopped moving.
Yanking her up, Grissom shoved his ear to her wet chest and heard the last feeble thump within it.
Then Sara died.
From the diary of David Phillips
Oct 24th, 9 PM
Sara, the old Sara is gone. Doctor Robbins is here now, along with the NIP counselor and together they washed her body and set it on her bed. I wanted to help, but Robbins insisted I keep an eye on Grissom instead. I have, but it's been too easy. He's sitting in the living room, not talking. Sometimes he gets up and goes to touch something and sits down again. When I try to talk to him he just shakes his head and looks through me--the man is in bad, bad shape.
I'm not doing too good either. Even after all the years of working with the dead and undead it's still as much of a shock when it's someone you know. I understand that Sara is going to Rise in about three hours, but the letting go part of having her die is still really hard. Sara was one of the first people who actually talked to me, about things that weren't work-related. And she never made fun of my plaid shirts.
That's a stupid thing to remember, but it's so perfectly Sara that it makes sense to me. I'm going to heat up some of the Chinese food in the refrigerator and see if I can't get Grissom to eat something--we'll all want to be awake and ready come midnight.
Cassie James sat on one end of Sara's bed, looking at the body laid out on the blue and grey striped coverlet. She was stone-still, and only the glitter of her red eyes in the bedside lamp showed any movement. On the other side of the bed, Al Robbins was gazing down at the corpse. His face was wet, unashamedly so. Gently he rested a hand on Sara's forehead.
"Living is death; dying is life. We are not what we appear to be. On this side of the grave we are exiles, on that, citizens; on this side orphans, on that, children."
Cassie turned her head towards him and thought for a moment.
"Beecher. F-f-found a Bartlett's once in a dumpster by a park. End of school, lost books like leaves. She WILL be a child." Cassie nodded. "Crying, falling, learning. Won't be easy."
Robbins met the vampire's eyes and nodded.
