A Flock of Ill Omens by Hart Johnson Page A

with,” Sarah said.
    “That's the best idea I've heard in a while.”
    Sid got online to book her ticket, then joined Sarah and David in the kitchen to coordinate laundry schedules. That would be the trickiest piece of all three of them packing at once. The three of them drinking wine in the kitchen made Grant's absence feel like dense fog hovering over them. He was always the most outgoing of them.
    “We'll check on him tomorrow before we go,” Sarah said.
    Sid nodded, fighting back tears. It was a bad time to be leaving her friends.
     
    When they arrived at Ricky's apartment the next morning, Sid had a hard time choking off the panic. The soup had never been retrieved from the landing.
    “Mask!” she ordered, and Sarah handed her one, then put on her own. There were already tears in Sarah's eyes and Sid felt herself getting choked up, too, feeding off of Sarah's dread.
    She pushed open the door. The place stunk of sweat and possibly urine. Grant was on the sofa, apparently passed out—unresponsive to their shouts. Sarah handed Sid surgical gloves and she put them on to check his pulse, but couldn't find one. Sarah moved her aside and managed.
    “Shallow and racing, but there,” she said. She had a lot more experience finding pulses than Sidney did.
    “Go find Ricky,” Sarah said as she headed to the kitchen, probably for a cloth to cool Grant down. Sid had been able to tell he was hot. She should have known that meant alive, but it was hard to think straight when she was this scared.
    Ricky was sprawled on the bed, eyes wide open. He looked like he'd been gasping for breath at the end and when she felt for a pulse, he was cold. She doubted he could have gotten that cold unless he'd died the night before.
    “He's dead,” Sid called to Sarah.
    “Shit. Call 9-1-1, I guess. Grant needs a hospital and Ricky needs a morgue. They can't stay here , at any rate,” she said.
    Sidney took off the gloves and pulled out her phone to call, for all the good it did. The dispatcher said there weren't any available units and she doubted the hospital had any room.
    When Sid relayed that, Sarah swore, but then told Sid to wait. Sid guessed that meant she knew something to do to help, even if a hospital was more ideal. She shut Ricky's bedroom door and got a towel to shove under the crack. It probably didn't matter, but death germs were something she'd rather avoid. She then put on a new pair of gloves and sat next to Grant to hold his hand. She couldn't hold in her tears thinking the love of his life was lying dead in the next room. So many dreams were gone.
    If this was the damn vaccine she had to find out who was responsible. She owed that to Grant.
     
    Sarah returned half an hour later with three bags of what was probably saline. She had a pump to control the speed and the tools to put in an IV.
    “Find me something to hang these from,” she ordered.
    Sid had to go in Ricky's room for it, but found a coat rack, cleared it of coats, and dragged it back out. It would do.
    As she watched Sarah be so efficient it was hard to even remember the party animal she'd been at nineteen–the student who had nearly flunked out of the University of Oregon because it was just too overwhelming, so had transferred first to Lane Community College, then to Oregon Health and Sciences. She'd finished a year behind Sid, but Sid could see the skills she'd learned topped her own in a crisis any day.
    Sarah put the IV in Grant's arm and started the drip, then ground some aspirin and soaked it in water that she put in his mouth with a dropper. She had Sid keep freshening the towel with cool water for his head.
    “We aren't leaving today, are we?” Sid asked.
    “I'm not. Grant and I were friends in grade school. He's my longest surviving friendship.”
    Sid knew that. She'd met Grant through Sarah, but while Sarah went off to become a nurse, she and Grant had hung out in Eugene for three more years, building a friendship of their own. Nothing