Spore by Tamara Jones Page B

fungus? It certainly would explain the smell.
    “I’m not going to ask you if you have copies of the pics—I know you do—but have you put them online, anywhere? Email? Twitter? The cloud?”
    “No,” Sean said, holding Todd’s gaze. “Personal use only. I swear. Inspiration for Ghoulie and all.” He wanted to ask more questions, about the mucus balls, the people, and the why of it all, but instead he held his tongue.
    The men stood there, gauging each other, until Todd nodded. “All right. Once the news breaks, and it will, do whatever you want with them. Put up billboards alongside the interstate or sell them to The National Enquirer for all I care. But if your photos hit the web first, I’ll lose my job. I can’t afford to lose my job.”
    “We’d never do anything to hurt you or Hailey. The pics won’t go anywhere. I promise.”
    Todd nodded and held out his hand. Sean shook it and Todd grinned. “Good to see you. Sorry it’s under such squirrelly circumstances. We should get together for a drink or something some time.”
    Sean grinned back. “I bartend at Hap’s Place Wednesday nights. Stop by and I’ll get you a burger and a beer, on the house.”
    “It’s a deal.” Todd wished them a good night and left.
    Mare closed the door behind him and turned to smile at Sean. “It’s been a long time since we last saw Todd.”
    “Yeah,” he said, shrugging. They’d been friends since they were kids, playing video games and getting into trouble together. Todd had been the one to suggest Sean go to art school instead of the military and had encouraged him to ask Mare out. But after Todd’s wife had entered the picture, they’d drifted apart. “Kim broke his heart, I think.” He grasped Mare’s hand. “Maybe he’ll start coming around more.”
    Mare squeezed his fingers. “Hope so. He’s a good guy.”
    “He’s gone?” Mindy asked, peeking around the corner.
    Sean removed his hand from Mare’s. “Yep. Just left.”
    Mindy smiled, relieved. “So, um, what happened out there? In the cemetery?” she asked, fidgeting. “Why am I here when I should be dead?”
    Sean gestured toward the hall. “I don’t know. But something in the pictures might help explain it.”
    Mindy listened to their tale and examined the pictures on Sean’s computer. “It’s not possible,” she said, staring at the whitish veins sprawling in front of Evelyn Fischer’s gravestone. Evelyn, the disoriented woman who’d kept sneezing at the back of the van. Born February 1942, died December 1985, and apparently back again July 2015. As a fungus. That cop had said so. And the doctors had found fungus in her blood.
    Mindy clasped her hands between her thighs and stared at the photo. Did I really come from one of those globs? How can this be real?
    “You okay?” Mare asked, squeezing Mindy’s shoulder.
    “I don’t know,” Mindy sighed. “Other than I’m just a fungus.”
    “You’re not a fungus,” Sean said from behind her. “Yeah, you smelled musty when I first met you, but you don’t now.”
    Oh gee, thanks, Mindy thought, glancing up at him.
    Mare frowned and nudged him aside. “Didn’t you say that you were urinating pink, but you’re not anymore?”
    “Yes, but—“
    “You’re obviously not sick, you’re not showing signs of skin lesions or systemic infection, and Sean’s right. You smell just fine.” Mare shrugged. “I work with sick people all day every day and I’ve seen a lot of fungal infections. I’m no doctor, but you’re not showing a single symptom. You’re not a fungus.”
    “But the doctors said we were infected, that it was all through our bodies, our cells.”
    “Maybe you’ve fought it off,” Sean said, shrugging. “That woman I helped out of the creek… I saw her change. As she stood, her eyes stopped being purple.”
    “Just like my urine did,” Mindy said. “So maybe the infection goes away?”
    “I don’t see why not,” Mare said. “And I really don’t