Pandemic by Scott Sigler Page A

wasn’t because I worked two goddamn jobs to keep us afloat so you could get your goddamn life back.”
    Cooper’s face flushed. He looked away.
    It was almost hard to remember what the lupus did to him: the fatigue, the swollen joints, the chest pain … all of it had threatened not only his ability to work, but his life as well. Jeff had stood by him. Jeff had called in all the favors he had with his brother, a doctor in Grand Rapids, to get Cooper into an experimental gene-therapy trial. The trial had
worked
. Most of Cooper’s symptoms were gone. As long as he went in every three months for booster injections, the doctors told him the symptoms would
always
be gone.
    Still, the past was the past, and if they didn’t do things right, there wouldn’t be a future.
    “Come on, man,” Cooper said. “You know I’m grateful for that, but it doesn’t help our business right now.”
    Jeff reached up, flipped his hair back. “Saving your life doesn’t help our business? You ever saved
my
life?”
    Oh, now it was Jeff who wanted to forget how things had been? He wasn’t the only one who could lay a guilt trip.
    “Brock, my family is the only reason you
have
a life, bro.”
    As soon as Cooper said the words, he wanted to
un
say them. There were some places friends just didn’t go, no matter how mad they got.
    Jeff and his brother had come from a broken home. When their father finally left them and their alcoholic mother, the boys had little guidance and even less help. Jeff’s brother had been sixteen; he’d been old enough to make his own way, to attack life and take what he wanted. Jeff, however, had been ten years old — he’d been lost. Cooper’s mom had all but adopted him, given Jeff love, support and discipline when his birth mother provided none of the above. Jeff had spent at least half his high school years sleeping at Cooper’s place. To say the two of them had grown up together was more than just a figure of speech.
    Cooper felt like an asshole. He could tell Jeff felt the same way. They’d both gone too far.
    Jeff sighed. “Hungry?”
    He opened the bag of food, offered Cooper a Styrofoam container.
    One sniff told Cooper what it was. “Roma’s green tomato parmesan?”
    Jeff raised his eyebrows twice in rapid succession. “Who’s your friend?” he said. “Who’s your buddy? I am, aren’t I?”
    Cooper laughed. He couldn’t help it.
    “Just because you’ve got a dead-on impression of Bill Murray from
Stripes
doesn’t mean we’re not broke.”
    “Broke, schmoke,” Jeff said. “Something will come up. You gotta think on the bright —”
    From Jeff’s pocket, his cell phone rang: the three-chord-crunch opening of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”
    He answered. “JBS Salvage, we got the skills if you got the bills. This is Jeff himself speaking.” He listened for a few seconds. “You’re right outside? Sure, come on in.”
    Jeff slid the phone back into his pocket and smiled at Cooper. “See? God provides, my son. A potential customer is coming in to talk to us.”
    They walked onto the shop floor just as the main door opened. In camea skinny Asian kid. Early twenties, maybe. All of five-foot-eight, with shiny black hair that hung heavy almost to his eyes. His dark blue hoodie had BERKELEY on the chest in block yellow letters. A gray computer bag hung over his left shoulder. From the way the strap dug into the sweatshirt, it looked like he was carrying a lot more than just a computer.
    Jeff and Cooper walked around the racing scow to meet the man.
    “Hi there,” Jeff said. “Can we help you?”
    The kid smiled uncomfortably. “Uh, yes. Are you Mister Brockman?”
    Cooper had expected to hear an accent, Chinese or Korean, Japanese maybe, but not a trace.
    Jeff flashed his trademark grin. “Depends on who’s asking,” he said. “If you’re a bill collector, my name is Hugo Chavez.”
    The kid stared, blinked. “Chavez?” He shook his head. “Oh, no, I’m not a bill