Feral King

by Ginger Booth

  The writing was aimed at a 6th grade reading level or so, with helpful graphics and icons to denote symptoms. Ava looked through the icon glossary table and found light sensitivity. That referenced exactly three entries, migraine, meningitis, and typhus.

  Ava turned to the typhus discussion. Lice were mentioned in the first paragraph. This sort of epidemic erupted in prison and refugee camps, or among the homeless, in winter or early spring, when populations huddled together for warmth, underfed, their immune systems depressed.

  Epidemic typhus spread through body lice.

  Another variant spread through fleas. Rats and squirrels could serve as a disease reservoir. Survival chances were better if it was the fleas that got you. Your prospects sucked either way, however.

  Ava tucked the booklet into her larger book, and blew out slowly, struggling to dampen her anxiety and think. She could talk it over with Kat. But Kat went home this morning with a sudden bad headache.

  Ava found Angel and touched her arm. “No more hospital admissions, OK? From here on, send them back to their own beds. Tell them to stay home, get lots of rest, and block the light from the windows. If they have a fever, they’re contagious. They know that.”

  “That’s all? No treatment?”

  There were treatments, specific antibiotics. They didn’t have any. Ava smiled at her. “It’ll run its course. Remember, the hospital is closed. You get some rest, too, Angel.” Ava was glad no one hugged or shook hands anymore. The Ebola survivors shrank from disease transmission.

  Alas, diseases transmitted in so many ways.

  She felt like a cad walking away from Angel. But there was nothing she could do for her.

  She crossed the street diagonally to consult Frosty in the dojo. But he sat on his table with a throng vying to get a piece of him. She looked the crowd over, noting more who struggled with the light, or massaged their temples, or sat on the mats, hugging head to knees.

  Maz sidled up to her. “Frosty wants to know if it’s urgent.”

  “Yes. But. Can we talk in the office, Maz?”

  “Should I fetch Frosty?”

  Ava realized she’d probably never been in a room alone with Maz before. Though a large swath of the female gang certainly had. “Just talk something through with me, Maz. OK? Please?”

  In the closed office, she told him her fears, thinking out loud. And as she worked it through, she realized little could be done. The incubation period was 10-14 days. And 10 days ago, the gang handled a pile of dead bodies from Hip Hops and Caudillos alike. If there were only a couple sick, she’d jump to isolate them, delouse them, control the spread. But from what she saw around her, everyone was already exposed. The people with fevers today were transferring infected lice days ago.

  “So the problem is managing a gang-wide disease outbreak,” Maz suggested gently. “So is typhus dangerous?”

  “Untreated, the death rate is 10 to 60%.”

  “Mother of God! That’s bad as Ebola.” Maz crossed himself, ending with a fist clenched in a brief prayer. He shoved open the office door. “Everybody out! Frosty, Jake, need you here. Where’s Kat?”

  Ava pursed her lips, the itch of a tear gathering in one eye. Shock dawned on Maz’s face, and he ran for the stairs to see Kat.

  Frosty listened to Panic’s spiel in the office, her concerns about what was happening. He’d felt like crap all day, with all-body muscle aches, and a mounting throb behind his eyes. He surreptitiously checked his forehead for fever, then converted the gesture into rubbing his face.

  Yes, he felt a fever coming on. He figured it was flu, no joke under these conditions. Kids died of influenza, the elderly died in droves, and it was highly contagious. He got his flu shot this autumn, though, as any subway commuter should. Then again, he got an Ebola vaccine too, and look what that bought him.

  He pulled a notepad from the desk drawer as Panic finished explaining her fears. “Thank you. I think it’s time we had an epidemic plan, don’t you? Overdue. I mean, an epidemic is what got us here, right?” He swallowed, noting the thickening in the back of his throat, the off taste in his mouth.

  I’m not disabled yet, he told himself firmly.

  Jake argued, “Frosty, we don’t know this is typhus. That’s not proven yet.”

  “Agreed. This is contingency planning. So what’s crucial? Water collection. We don’t want to be overrun by another gang. Hydration salts, Panic?”

  “Latrines and hygiene,” Panic suggested. “And yeah, get a little fluid and calories and salts into the sick. But everybody knows that rule. They should have at least a gallon or two of water in the apartment per person.”

  “Good. Remind them of that. So those are the four priorities. No matter what, tend the water barrels. Staff the barricades. Just home block, if we’re short on healthy bodies. Bring water upstairs to the sick, leave it in the halls or something. If you see empties in the halls, bring them downstairs to refill. Every building. Hygiene rules strictly enforced, always. Though for typhus they won’t help. Jake, do we send a message to Libre?”

  Jake considered that one. “Two possibilities: they’re in the same boat, or they’re not. First boat, they can’t help us. Second case, they might take advantage. But if they wanted to take advantage, they would have done it already. We’re not obliged.”

  Frosty nodded thoughtfully. “So it’s an act of consideration. Yeah, I want a runner.” He bent to write a short note to Elon, summarizing their concerns. “Do we have a spare copy of that epidemic booklet?”

  “I kept one. It’s in my room,” Jake volunteered. “Want me to get it?”

  “In a minute. How do you feel?”

  “Me? I’m fine.”

  Frosty met his eye. “Good. Send this to Elon for me, would you?”

  Jake swallowed. “Your eyes are glassy, Frost.”

  “They are.” Frosty detached his note sheet and handed that to Jake as well. “I was thinking these priorities could go on the white board in the dojo. In case nobody’s there. Leave instructions. ‘In case of epidemic, do this.’ Might calm people, firm their resolve. Positive steps to take.”

  “Want me to call the captains to a meeting?” Panic offered.

  “Your eyes are glassy, too, baby,” Frosty returned sadly. “Jake, I have every confidence in you. To lead, not boss. Share the load. Calm the fears. I think I’ll go upstairs and take some aspirin. Lie down.”

  Jake nodded with earnest resolve. “I got this. Good luck and God bless. I’ll pray for you.” His military haircut grew shaggy, sticking out in tufts behind his pronounced ears.

  Frosty caught himself wool-gathering and nodded back with a faint smile, so that Jake would leave. Then he summoned his energy and rose, and stumbled into the desk corner. A born athlete, he wasn’t used to tripping into things. He barked his shin on the desk leg, too. “Is it just light, or…?”

  “Neurological symptoms,” Panic supplied. “Why, is the light bothering you?”

  “No.” Or not yet? “We got water?” She walked him up to the apartment, then left with their bottles to top them up while she still could. Typhus came on like a Mack truck.

  33

  March 19, E-day plus 101

  Ava pulled her bed covers off her face and opened her eyes at the same time. Ow! She reversed the motion, swiftly ducking back underneath the down comforter. The sudden motion sent stabbing pain through her skull, as though someone hammered a stake into it.

  The dawn light was unbearable. That could only get worse. But Frosty didn’t mind the light yesterday. She grabbed his shoulder to shake him, but the movement energized the hot poker behind her eyes. If his head felt like hers, she should downgrade from a shake to a gentle nudge.

  “Frosty? Could you close the curtains, please?” she wheedled. “My eyes hate the light.”

  After a couple more pokes, Frosty tried peeking out of the bed, and changed his mind. “No. Ow…”

  “It’ll get brighter if we don’t fix it,” Ava crooned.

&
nbsp; “You fix it. I’m dying.” His voice was a papery whisper. He shuddered.

  That was fair, she conceded. Hiding behind the blanket, she scooted to the mattress edge and studied cast-off socks below. Neither of them wore black socks. But she spotted her black leggings. She snagged them into bed and bound her eyes. Then she peeked toward the windows cautiously – still bright, but bearable. Her calf muscles panged like a double charley horse as she struggled to standing.

  But the light must be conquered.

  She closed the heavy drapes on the balcony and bedroom nook first, whimpering with the aches in her biceps and wrists. Then she felt her way to the living room. Her aquarium of leafy greens stood in the way of the curtains. She drew the heavy fabric across, then tucked it behind the aquarium. She lifted her black pant leg to test her arrangements. Too bright. The curtain hiked over the aquarium spilled a blinding puddle of light at the foot of its tray table. She struggled against the weight of the thing to shove it closer to the window.

  Still a ring of light beneath it, blindingly painful. She cast around. There was a big coffee-table book – there. She slid it under the aquarium, even tougher than shifting the table. But the bright spot was solved at last. She sank into the loveseat and pulled off her blindfold to gaze around. Her hypersensitivity to light didn’t help see any better in the dark. But she didn’t mind. Murk was good.

  But it was morning. She needed to pee, didn’t she? A drink of water? Where did she leave the water, anyway? She shivered and pulled a blanket over herself. They kept throw blankets in the living room. Too tired to get ready for bed was a common event. After a long day, the climb to the third floor was exhausting. Often one or the other of them conked out on the loveseat and slept a couple hours before they could face the effort to brush their teeth and change into pajamas.

  After a long while, she grew concerned that Frosty needed water. So did her plants, but they must wait for nightfall. She rallied to hunt for a jug. Hanging onto the high counter for support, she realized she needed a bedpan in the bedroom too. Between the water, the bedpan, and her own need to use the bucket in the bathroom, she ran out of steam and collapsed to the kitchen floor for another rest break.

  Eventually strong arms scooped her up and set her in the armchair. He tucked a blanket around her. That was good because she was shivering.

  “Panic?” Maz’s voice reverberated between her ears, as though they took turns hearing. “Do you hear me?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Drink this.”

  He tried to serve her from a gallon jug, but it came at her too fast, and she flailed at him. He fetched a short plastic tumbler, to feed her one sip at a time. She was thirsty. Was that why she was in the kitchen?

  “I’ll bring Frosty out here.”

  Better Maz than me, Panic agreed, and drifted off again. Then he was holding her by the chin.

  “Panic? Frosty is on the couch. You both need to drink every hour. The bedpan is here on the coffee table. Do you understand?”

  “Frosty. Couch. Drink. Coffee…” The coffee part eluded her. Kat ran out of coffee. “Kat.”

  After a pause, Maz murmured, “Don’t worry about Kat.”

  “You’re worried.”

  “I’m worried about you, squirt.” He wiped a cool hand over her throbbing forehead. “And Frosty and everyone else.”

  Ava wrinkled her brow, but that made her headache worse. “Leadership. I should ask about…them.” Them who? She didn’t care.

  “You leave them to me. Have another drink, then go back to sleep.”

  She drank obediently. “Scissors.”

  “What do you want me to cut?”

  “Black leggings. Wet. For my forehead. And Frosty.”

  He did her that small favor. The cold wet black compress felt so good. Her shivers increased, but the wet spandex stayed put and blocked the horrible light.

  Until her fever dried it and it fell off. That made her sad.

  Eventually he came back and did it again. And again, and it was night. Maz watered her greens for her. He chewed some mustard leaves and spit them into her cup and made her drink it. That was an effort, but she felt better once she managed to swallow it all.

  March 20, E-day plus 102

  Cade was so thirsty. To move was an impossibility. Even lying still he hyperventilated, panting fast and shallow. He tried to force himself to breathe deep, draw on his karate training. This worked for a moment while he focused, then failed when his attention drifted.

  But the velvety dark was deep and safe, and he evaporated into the fever dreams. Gary was here. But he wasn’t here now. Mom?

  Horror yawned like a giant maw to swallow him.

  No Mom.

  No Gary – Maz. No Cade – I am Frosty the Snowman. I am cool and poised. I am so thirsty.

  He peeled off his crochet afghan and tried to rise. His aching leg buckled, and spilled him onto the carpeted floor. Its deep pile invited him to fall back to sleep forever. But its dust made him sneeze. Water.

  He managed to lever himself to sitting on the carpet, back propped against the couch. That gave him reach. From there he patted around until he found the water gallon, still mostly full, and a cup, empty. He tried to drink from the gallon, too heavy from this angle. But the gallon was full enough that he could tilt it to pour into the cup.

  He could drink from the cup.

  And his brain started working a little, despite the jackhammers in his skull. Ava needed water. Not Ava – Panic.

  He inched his butt across and found a foot, then a thigh, then her face. He struggled to his knees to give her water. They both drank until the cup was empty. Then he passed out curled at her feet, with his face on her lap.

  Maz came with the dim dawn, and rearranged them onto the couch side by side this time. He provided more cups, pre-filled, on end tables.

  Sometimes he came and refilled the cups, sometimes with the horrible oral rehydration salts, or jello mix. But usually the couple could take care of each other now.

  Frosty sat awake much of the time. But he stared at a wall, unable to think, to care, to speak.

  Days passed. The disease grew worse. A painful spotted rash broke out all over Panic’s torso, then his own. The rash spread until only their faces, the palms of their hands and soles of their feet, were free of it. Panic went into weak convulsions at one point. Afterwards her eyes stayed closed for an hour, or a day.

  The headache never quit. With glacial slowness he grew convinced that he wanted to die.

  He earnestly told Maz this. That it was too damned hard. He tried to give everyone a way to survive but he was too small and exhausted and the problem was too big. He begged Maz to forgive him for failing, to grant him absolution to just give up and die.

  Actually he only spoke about five words trying to convey all this. But Maz understood.

  And he refused. “You’re not allowed. Get well first. Then tell me you want to die.”

  So unfair. Ebola was a nightmare. Typhus was the nightmare all over again. And in between the two, life was a nightmare.

  But Panic’s precious tiny form slumped against his shoulder. “Not allowed,” she confirmed.

  Then Maz stopped visiting.

  April 1, E-day plus 114

  The paralyzing stupor of typhus wore off first for Ava. On the fourteenth day after falling sick, she decided it was time to take up her life again. The water gallons were almost empty. Maz hadn’t brought new ones in days, maybe a week. She clung to the furniture and walls for support on her trek to the balcony door, suddenly curious what had become of the world while they lay here.

  The light was painfully bright as she slipped behind the curtain. But she looked down to her feet and gave her pupils a minute to contract. That was enough. It was simply a sunny day. She slipped open the door and felt warmth. Not summer warmth, of course. But compared to rainy 40’s, an almost-60-degree day felt divine.

  Winter was gone. The day was actually warmer outdoors than inside.
A couple young dandelions even grew in the pots she’d collected on the balcony. The urge to eat the weeds young was nearly overwhelming. But no – she wanted these prize babies to go to seed! Dandelions were good eating, and eager to grow even through a crack in the sidewalk.

  The street below looked light on foot traffic. Kids dawdled about their business, no rush. Good sign. She left the glass door and curtains open a crack as though to invite rebirth to sneak in like a ninja from the quickening world beyond.

  Not that West 23rd provided much habitat for the natural world. But birds were singing.

  Her mustard greens were limp, her recent efforts to water them lackluster. She ate a dry and crispy plant she deemed beyond hope of resuscitation. Then she worked her way to the hall, to open her apartment door. Sure enough, fresh gallon jugs of water awaited. They were damned heavy, so she nudged a couple along with her feet until she reached the carpet, then poured out a carafe worth, glassware courtesy of the useless drip coffee maker. She coaxed Frosty to drink a half cup. She watered her aquarium.

  Her own pets taken care of, she rested a while. Then she set off to check on Maz.

  Maz prepared himself well, lying blotto on his couch, coffee table pulled in close beside him. He’d filled a dish tub of water to easily dip out cupfuls, and quart bottles of the sickly sweet oral rehydration salts. Another bottle offered some kind of protein shake mix, smelling mighty foul by now. Warmer temperatures were a mixed blessing. They no longer lived in a fridge.

  Panic repaid his kindness in caring for them. She even gave him a bit of a top-half sponge bath and a fresh T-shirt. He’d vomited on the one he was wearing some days ago.