GRIM FEVER
R Scott Mather
overmorrow press
Copyright © 2021 R Scott Mather
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-7366547-0-5
rscottmather.com
To Jenny, Bryn, and Elliot.
Everything for you, always.
PART I
1
The fever came two days ago, kicking off a mosh pit inside my skull. Now, aches roar in every joint, every bone. The skin on my chest crawls but scratching only worsens it. With no sleep at all last night, it’s unlikely I’ll be able to doze this morning, so I peel off my damp sheets and fling my legs over the side of the mattress. I have to steady myself. Just sitting upright, my bed is a canoe caught between ocean swells.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my shirt, grab the remote from the nightstand, and turn on the TV. Spokane Saturday morning news. Text scrolls across the bottom of the screen: SVE-1 ‘Grim Fever’ Virus Linked to Encephalitis Deaths. The studio reporter, a baby-faced man with his Windsor knot too tight, says, “The virus, believed to be responsible for over ten thousand deaths nationwide, has epidemiologists baffled. Known on social media and other corners of the internet as ‘Grim Fever,’ the virus spreads via skin contact. Symptoms typically appear within twenty-four hours, and to date, it has a one hundred percent mortality rate. Experts say development of a vaccine is unlikely because of the rapid mutation of the virus. In local news, outbreaks at the pr—”
I change the channel to ESPN for background noise more than anything. The virus is all anyone talks about, and I’m sick of hearing it. ‘Grim Fever’ sounds more like a horror movie.
Nature calls, so I shuffle to the bathroom, twinges in my legs and back slowing my pace. After relieving my morning bladder, I strip off my shirt and look in the mirror. The purple-red rash has blossomed from my chest up to my neck. Damn it.
I need to get moving, so I rally my achy bones into the shower. The faucet handle squeals as I turn it to the blue ‘C,’ then lather and rinse as quickly as my body allows. Cold showers suck, no matter how often I take them. It’s something I’ve never been able to get used to.
I finish getting ready in impressive time despite a few dizzy spells, then grab my coffee tumbler and a breakfast bar and head to work. My supervisor lets me clock in for a few hours on weekends, even though I’m not on the schedule. “I can always use spare sets of eyes and hands,” he always says. I think he just enjoys my delightful demeanor.
Corrections Officer never appeared on my career aptitude tests in high school. Spending all day surrounded by murderers, rapists, and child molesters isn’t anyone’s ideal gig, but it’s perfect for my current situation. For example, I’ve been watching a serial kid toucher for the past week; he’ll get some hands-on attention today.
I’ve been at Spokane Correctional Facility for six months. It’s my third prison in almost two years. The prison in Montana was okay, but the job paid in ‘thank yous’ and loose change. Before that, the facility in Cleveland paid well, but management was strict and made things difficult with my...special needs. I’ll miss it here. The pay is decent, and most of the other correctional officers are tolerable—with a few exceptions. But the number of inmates infected with Grim Fever is growing too fast, so my time here is nearing its end.
It’s my fault, of course. The number of virus cases, that is. I’ve lived with the Grim for the past two years, give or take a month. I don’t know how I got it, don’t know why it hasn’t killed me. What I do know is that this bastard disease flares up every four or five weeks; I know when it’s time because my hands trickle sweat like a busted showerhead. And if I don’t touch someone and infect them, the symptoms rage to the point of a living hell.
I drive into the employee parking lot. It’s empty.
Tabitha stands in the attendee booth, head cocked and mouth knotted to the side. “Hey, Officer Chaucer. Can’t let anyone in today. Didn’t you get the alert?”
“No. What happened?”
“Locked down for quarantine. A bunch of inmates got that Grim Fever business.”
Shit.
“Can I park and call my supervisor?”
“Sorry.” She twists her lips and shrugs. “No one goes in. Orders are orders.”
The steering wheel is glossy with sweat. I look at Tabitha and force a smile. How easy it would be to reach out and grab her hand, thank her for being cheerful every morning. To transmit the virus and allow it to absorb into her skin. It would buy me another month.
I shake my head.
Tabitha is kind. A single mother who works two jobs. I can’t let my desperation cloud my judgment. She does not deserve this misery.
I grin. “Got it. Thanks. Be safe out here.”
“I will. You, too.” Her smile is welcoming and bright. I can’t believe I considered passing this on to her. Sourness stings the back of my throat.
Now what? I’ve thought about moving to Denver. Maybe I’ll find a charming penitentiary there. The prison here worked out for me, but I can’t continue spreading the Grim. I’ve infected eight of humanity’s worst, and it’s a reasonable assumption that they transmitted it to others in the prison population. I should have asked Tabitha if she knew the number of infected inmates.
Damn it.
I head east with no destination. I have to focus. I need a new home. But before I make my relocation plans, I need to come up with Plan B for today. Where can I find someone who deserves this curse? I struggle to think of places where seedy types might hand out. Strip club? Maybe I’ll find a meth dealer or an abusive twat looking for his next punching bag. I pull into a McDonald’s parking lot and pull out my phone to Google the closest gentleman’s club. As I type it out, I receive a text message:
To all prison staff, the facility is under quarantine...
Timely.
I finish my search and discover that Pleasure Playground is only four miles north. I get back onto the street and head for my destination. After a couple minutes on the road, the edges of my vision go gray. My skin burns like I’m radioactive. I yearn for the euphoric release that comes when I pass on the virus. The instant shift from agony to ecstasy is a feeling unlike any drug could deliver. I’m an addict jonesing for another hit of relief.
I’ve tried letting the disease kill me. Several times. Laying in a hotel room bathtub, bathing in my sweat, waiting for my insides to sizzle and turn to a bubbly goo. But before I could succumb to the symptoms, it was like the virus seized control and forced me to spread it. An attempted overdose didn’t work either. I puked up an entire bottle of pills seconds after ingesting them with the virus acting as my stomach’s bouncer. It keeps me alive to keep itself alive.
I pull into the parking lot of Pleasure Playground. No cars. Damn it. Chad, you idiot, it’s nine a.m.—no strip clubs are open this early. I’m losing focus.
Something taps my leg. Droplets fall from the steering wheel like a leaky spigot. My hands are soaked, and soon my pants will look like I had an unfortunate incident at a urinal. A fiery itch creeps up my neck. The rash is spreading. I have little time before the virus seizes control and forces me to cross a line.
I had a list of people for situations like this during my time in Montana. I called it my Rolodex of the Damned. I’d pay a
visit to the next jerkoff on the list, touch him, then go on my way. But here, I haven’t needed it. If the situation called for it, I’d go into work, my supervisor would assign me to a section, and I’d find the most ravenous convict to infect. I’ve become too reliant on the prison. I need to diversify.
My heart booms like a brick in a dryer. Thud-thump. Thud-thump. Faster. Harder. My eyes go blurry. I’m not going to make it much further, so I pull into a spot near the Starbucks in the corner of the lot. I want to run inside and grab the first person I see or touch the homeless man who just hid his bottle of vodka behind the bus bench. Anything to stop this agony.
Time won’t allow me to be as picky as I’d like, but I have to try and hold myself to some sort of standard. But I might not have such luxury today. I swallow the knot in my throat and accept that I might have to choose someone who doesn’t deserve to die.
I slide out of my truck, legs buckling under my weight as I land on the asphalt. I blow out a long exhale and steady myself against the truck’s fender.
A man and woman walk past me, both white-haired and frail, skin speckled with time, holding each other’s hands. They’ve both lived long lives. Would it matter if they died a year too early? The man waves and nods. The woman smiles, a streak of hot pink lipstick on her two front teeth.
No. Not them.
I suck in a breath and push myself off the truck. My feet clump like my shoes are made of granite. Once inside, I shove my hands in my pockets. Moisture seeps through the fabric on my thighs. The older couple stands in line, still holding hands. In the seating area, five teenagers huddle around laptops. A woman in a red tank top with straight black hair in a ponytail sits in a club chair. She thumb-taps her phone, running shorts riding high up her thighs. A man perpendicular to the woman peeks over his book, eyes fixed on her tan legs. I name him Peep in my mind.
Peep could be a promising target.
The seat next to him is open, so I shuffle over and plop into it, sure to crane my neck as if I’m looking for someone particular. Peep side-eyes me, then returns to his book. Or the woman. I can’t tell from this angle. My throat sinks into my chest, sweat leaches from my pores. The virus is on the brink of exploding, and I need to make this happen now.
Peep is wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Not ideal, but at least his hands are exposed. I can stand, pretend to lose my balance, and grab him on my way to the ground. I only need a second of skin-to-skin contact. I try to convince myself that this guy is planning to do something worse than ogling her bare legs.
This guy is horrible. He has to be.
I push myself off the chair at the same time he stands up.
“There’s my girl,” he says. He steps around a small table, grabs a coffee cup I didn’t realize belonged to him, and walks toward the entrance where a red-haired woman stands holding a baby dressed in pink. Peep kisses the baby’s bald head, then kisses the woman on the lips. “I got you a flat white,” he says to her.
Damn it.
The young family leaves.
Shit.
I slump back into the chair. The headache makes my eyes vibrate, and a current inside my stomach threatens a dry retch. Much longer, and I’ll be forced to grab the next person within an arm’s-length. My mind spins.
The elderly couple shuffles into the seating area, scanning for two chairs near each other. The woman in the red tank top looks up from her phone and stands. “Here, take my seat.” She smiles and moves to the ‘Pick up here’ spot by the front counter. The old man gestures for his wife to sit, and he gingerly settles into the chair next to me. His liver-spotted hand sits atop the armrest, inches away.
I turn away and look out the window.
Damn it, Chad. Think! Where can I go?
When I was in Cleveland, I found my way into the ICU of a hospital. Sweat dripped off my fingertips as I searched for a terminal patient. I’ll never forget Sandra Medina’s face as she lay in her bed, peaceful, unknowing. I gripped her exposed leg above the ankle. The rush of relief overlaid any sense of guilt at the time, but that moment will haunt me forever. I still see her face.
Sandra reminded me of my Leanne—full lips, chubby cheeks, wavy brown hair. I rub my thumb on the finger that once bore my wedding ring. My chest aches like someone unplugged my heart, and it has nothing to do with the virus.
I shake away the memories. How close is the nearest hospital? I slip the phone out of my pocket, but I can’t unlock it because my fingers are too wet for the touchscreen. I groan, wipe my hand on my jeans, then pull up a search. The nearest hospital is twenty-two miles from here. I huff through my nose. I don’t have twenty-two miles in me. The virus has its claws dug in and won’t relent until I share it with someone close. There has to be someone nearby who’s gotten away with something horrific.
I get up to leave, and the white-haired man smiles. “You remind me of my grandson,” he says.
On any other day, I’d joke with him, tell him something along the lines of, “Oh, you’re too young to be my grandfather.” Then I’d wink at his wife and say she was too young for him.
Instead, I strain a weak smile. “Have a good day.”
Outside, people chatter on the patio. A car honks when a pickup truck doesn’t move after the light turns to green. I stagger to the corner of the intersection with the hope I’ll stumble across someone to poison with my curse. Drug dealers and pimps are working at this hour, right? Are there even pimps in Spokane? I scan the street for seedy back alleys, a mugger, anyone that can help me stop the orchestra of screams in my head.
The woman in the red tank top stops next to me at the crosswalk, one hand holding a venti iced something-or-other, the other thumbing on her phone.
A thunderous roar erupts to my left. A white Mustang accelerates to beat the light.
Bing. The crosswalk signal changes to the green silhouette of a person, but the car swerves into the turn lane and guns it.
The sleeve of my t-shirt rustles as the woman in the tank top moves forward. Her eyes focused on her phone, she takes a step into the crosswalk.
I grab her bare shoulders and yank her from the path of the speeding car. Her cup flings forward into the street, the phone slams onto the sidewalk.
The engine growls, and rubber squeals as the car escapes.
The woman stares glass-eyed at the tan puddle splattered on the street, a green straw propped up on an ice cube. She looks at me, mouth open. “Ohmygod. You saved my life.”
If only.
A surge of electric energy gushes through my veins, and my head floats like a balloon tied to a string. Every ache in my body dissipates, the sweat on my hands vaporizes, and the crushing weight on my chest disappears. The virus has released its grasp, freeing me.
For another month, at least.
The woman stares at me. “My heart is racing right now. Oh my gosh. Thank you.”
I pick up her phone and hand it to her.
“Thank you so much.” She hugs me, presses her face into my chest.
What do I say? ‘You’re welcome, but you’ll die in a week from Grim Fever?’
My mind is a mangled heap of emotion. Physically, I feel like a superhero.
But superheroes don’t kill innocent people.
I pull away from her embrace. “Ma’am, uh—”
She smiles, tears pooling. “I owe you my life.”
2
Passersby slow their pace, their curiosity piqued. People mill around, quietly murmuring as they gossip about what they just witnessed. All eyes on the coffee shop patio focus on me and the woman I saved.
Rather, the woman I poisoned.
No thought went into my actions, it was pure instinct. And I’d do it again given a chance. But now what?
She stares at me, doe-eyed with an open-mouthed grin. She might have a chance to survive if she gets to a hospital right away.
“Um, ma’am. Listen to me. I have...”
What do I say? I don’t have time for explanations, and she won’t believe me.
I need to do something. I scan the area—for what, I don’t know. Napkins from Starbucks? That won’t work, but maybe water will.
“Stay right here,” I tell the woman. “I’ll be right back.”
Her smile melts, and her eyes narrow. “Um...okay.”
I sprint toward the coffee shop. My legs feel strong, my head no longer pulsates.
The transient man steps toward me. “Where you goin’, hero?”
I look at him. Words escape me, but a glint of light behind him steals my attention. My shoes squeal on the concrete as I stop. I pivot and dart past him, then reach underneath the bench and grab his bottle of vodka.
“Hey, that’s mine.” He scowls but doesn’t move.
I unscrew the top and jog back to the woman.
“What are you doing?” She steps backward and tenses.
“I have to sanitize you.”
Her face contorts. “What?”
Before she can react, I pour the liquor over her bare shoulders and upper arms—any exposed skin I touched. I don’t know how fast the virus absorbs into the skin, but with any luck, the vodka will kill it before it infects her.
She jumps back, her face twisted. “What the hell are you doing?” She wipes away the alcohol.
“No,” I say. “You need—”
The crowd closes in around us, and an uneasy energy fills the air. “Hey,” someone shouts. Another yells, “Leave her alone.” Two men step out from the group, arms folded and scowling. “You okay?” one of them asks the woman.
I put my hands up and plead with her. “Please, you have to listen to me.”
The woman takes another step back. “What is your deal?” Her fists are at her sides, knuckles white.
I survey the agitated mob. Several people hold their cell phones up, recording what might become the next viral social media post. I could walk away, continue living in my isolated existence, safe from anyone uncovering my past. I can’t announce to the world that I have Grim Fever. But she deserves to know what I did to her.
Grim Fever Page 1
