Grim Fever

by R Scott Mather

  With my hands up in a non-aggressive posture, I take a slow step toward her.

  She tenses.

  I suck in a lungful of air. “I have to tell you something, but I can’t say it in front of everyone.”

  She glares at me.

  “You might have the Grim,” I whisper.

  She blinks but doesn’t react.

  One of the do-gooders from the crowd steps closer to me, eyes like a prowling tiger’s. His red flannel shirt clings to his burly frame. With his bushy beard, he could be a model in a job ad for a lumberjack. “Hey bud, leave her alone.”

  “I’m not trying to hurt her. I’m trying to help.” The words come out more aggressively than I intend. “Honestly,” I say in a softer tone.

  The woman’s mouth opens, so only the tips of her teeth are showing. She looks me over, searching for something. “What are you doing? What do you want?” she asks.

  I ease close enough for her to hear me without being invasive. “You might have Grim Fever,” I say softly, hoping she heard me this time.

  Her eyes bulge. She wraps her arms around herself and stumbles backward.

  A flurry of nerves rumble in my gut. She heard it that time. I swallow the jagged mass in my throat. “You have to get to a hospital.”

  Her face goes vacant, lost in her thoughts with a million-mile stare. The crowd is silent, the whir of cars on the street the only sound. After a series of blinks, she comes back to reality. “I have the Grim?” The emphasis on ‘Grim’ carries through the assembly of on-lookers.

  Audible gasps stream from the crowd. People scatter to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the woman in the tank top. Red-flannel-shirt-guy pushes a teenage girl to the ground as he flees. A few screams erupt as the crowd disperses.

  Seconds later, no one is near us except for the homeless man. He shuffles toward me. Scowls. “Can I have my drink back, man?”

  I hand the bottle to him. It’s safe. I still carry the virus, but I’m not contagious at the moment.

  The man draws a long pull from the bottle and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Thank you.” He tilts the bottle toward me. “And you’re welcome.” He struts back to the bench.

  I turn to the woman.

  Her cheeks shine with tears, but she looks angrier than anything.

  At the prison, I usually strike an intimidating or defensive stance. I fumble to appear non-threatening to this woman. Hands in pockets? To my side? I clasp my left hand over my right. “What’s your name?”

  “Lynn.” She says it through clenched teeth.

  “Nice to meet you, Lynn. I’m Chad. I know this is strange, but you need to be admitted to a hospital immediately.” I slide my phone out to dial nine-one-one but freeze. I can’t call. There will be questions that I don’t want to answer. “Do you have a car nearby?”

  She looks toward the street on her left, then shakes her head.

  “Can I take you to the hospital?”

  “No.” She crosses her arms over her chest and steps back. “I’ll call my husband.” Her voice is steady once again, almost forceful now. She rubs the moisture from her cheeks. “Or my sister. She lives close.”

  I don’t know if it matters at this point, but getting to the hospital sooner than later can only be a good thing.

  She chews on the inside of her cheek.

  My chin drops to my chest. I force out a sigh, a constriction in my chest challenging every breath.

  Lynn juts her chin forward. “Do you...why would you say I have it? Grim Fever?”

  “Because...” The words are thorns in my mouth. “Because I infected you.”

  She swallows hard, lines sear her forehead. “You infected me?” Her tone raises an octave.

  “I’m sorry. But listen, the longer we wait, the more likely you’re going to...” I can’t say it aloud.

  “Die?” Her voice cracks.

  I grimace and nod. “I can explain everything to you, but you have to trust me.”

  Her eyes shrink into narrow slits. “Why would I trust you?” She sweeps her gaze from side to side. No one is around. Even the vodka-swilling man is gone. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “I don’t blame you.” This is going nowhere, and time is crucial. Of course, she doesn’t want to get into a car with a strange man. Especially one who just doused her in vodka. I blow out a sigh. “How long until your husband or sister can get here?”

  She looks to her left again. “Maybe ten minutes.”

  “Okay, call one of them and get yourself to the hospital as soon as possible.”

  Lynn blinks, her face void of emotion. “I’ll call my sister.” She looks at her phone, but hedges. Her eyes meet mine. “How are you...” Her lips twist as she bites the inside of her cheek again.

  “Alive?” I offer a sad smile.

  “Yeah.”

  I shrug. “Wish I knew. But, once every month or so, I get these horrible headaches and rashes. My hands get incredibly sweaty; that’s when it’s most contagious. When I touched your skin, you were infected instantly. And my symptoms disappeared.”

  Lynn glares at me, scrutinizes me for any amount of bullshit, and she shakes her head. “I can’t believe this.”

  “I know.” I try to keep my voice steady. “It’s weird. But please, call your sister and get to the hospital as soon as you can.” I don’t know if it will matter in the end, but maybe she’ll have a chance if she gets in early.

  “The news said it has a hundred percent fatality rate.”

  “Well, I’m still alive, and I’ve had it for two years.”

  Lynn inhales and fights back tears. She lifts the phone. “Kristin?” She squeezes her eyes shut. Her shoulders slump forward, and she grinds her palm on her forehead. “I’m so sorry, I forgot. Give my best to Ron and his family.” She lowers the phone to her side. “I’m the worst. Today is her mother-in-law’s funeral.” She rubs the side of her head with her free hand.

  “What about your husband?”

  She snorts and looks away. “I don’t have a husband. I just said that to...I don’t know, scare you off or something.”

  Huh. “Is there anyone else you can call?”

  She shakes her head. Her face loses color, and then the dam breaks, and her body shudders with every weep.

  My heart sinks like a plummeting elevator. I don’t know how to fix this. I open the Uber app on my phone. The nearest car is seventeen minutes away. “Okay. Call nine-one-one. Tell them you’ve been exposed to—”

  “You really have it?” Her strained voice sounds painful.

  I nod.

  “And you’re alive?”

  “I am alive.”

  Her gaze feels like she’s burrowing through my skull to read my thoughts. To determine my sincerity.

  “Do you want me to call?”

  She shakes her head. “I had a panic attack the last time I was in an ambulance.”

  “Well, maybe—”

  She puts her hand up. “Where’s your car?”

  Lynn sits squished against the passenger-side door, her balled fist close to the handle. She looks straight ahead through the windshield but positions her head to keep me in her peripheral view.

  I contemplate a plan for when we arrive at the hospital. Do I go inside with her? Offer support if she wants it? Or drop her off at the emergency entrance and drive away? That seems cold, but it suits my interests in maintaining anonymity.

  The silence is discomforting. I clear my throat. “You doing okay, Lynn?”

  She huffs a little laugh. “My name isn’t Lynn. It’s Lindsay. Lindsay Green.”

  Huh. “Well, Lindsay Green, my name really is Chad. Chad Chaucer.”

  I wait for a response—people always have something to say about my name—but she remains quiet.

  “What made you decide to trust me?” I look ahead at the road but sense her turn toward me.

  “I don’t fully trust you.” She inhales. “But the vodka...that was so weird. Like, you
were genuinely panicking.”

  I let out a short chuckle. “I was panicking. Still am.”

  I sneak a peek at her; she’s smiling.

  “Is your last name really Chaucer?”

  There it is.

  “Yes. No relation to the writer. I know how weird it sounds, and I’ve heard all the jokes. My nickname all through high school was Cha Cha.”

  Lynn—Lindsay snorts. “That’s amazing.” She laughs to herself. “So, how...how did you find out you had it? The Grim.”

  “A little over two years ago, I went to the hospital with a one-o-four fever and debilitating body aches. I couldn’t stand to pee, let alone walk. The doctor comes in—young guy, Doctor Morston. He tells me I have some sort of viral infection that’s causing brain inflammation. He didn’t seem concerned, thought it would pass. Two days later, I know I’m going to die. I felt my body withering. A plum-colored rash covered my entire body. I looked like Grimace from the old McDonald’s commercials. I’m lying in the hospital bed, head throbbing, skin itchy as hell, sheets soaked from sweat, hands leaking like a hose.“

  I realize then I’ve never spoken these words to anyone. I relive the memory in my mind a dozen times a day, but saying the words aloud feels like a bear trap clamping on my heart.

  Lindsay shifts in her seat. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” I fill my lungs with a deep breath. “So, I feel like I’m about to die. My wife, Leanne, comes to see me. I try to tell her I love her, but my mouth doesn’t work. She takes my hand, and in that instant, all the horror evaporated—the rash, headache, sour joints, everything.”

  Lindsay sinks back into the headrest. “Wow.”

  “I was never spiritual, but I thought it was a miracle—that Leanne cured me with love.” I pause to gather myself, so I don’t end up irrigating my face with tears. “Turns out, I infected her. I felt, like, perfectly fine. No fever, no aches. But the next morning, Leanne was in the ER with all the same symptoms I had.”

  Lindsay leans toward me again. “Oh my gosh.”

  I grip the steering wheel, hands void of color. Moisture collects in my lower lids. “She died five days later.”

  I blink and let the tears dribble down my face. Getting the thoughts out of my mind didn’t ease the burning in my chest. Maya Angelou said every storm runs out of rain. After two years, I’m still waiting for this downpour to stop.

  Another quiet spell haunts the cab of the truck. Lindsay’s been quiet since I dropped my sob story on her. I wouldn’t know what to say, either, if the roles were flipped.

  Lindsay ahems. “What does it feel like?”

  “Imagine you’re under the scorching Death Valley sun on a July afternoon, dozens of scorpions are creeping over your bare skin, your brain is in a paint mixer, and someone has drilled holes in all your joints. That’s the second day, and it only gets worse from there.”

  “Oh.” Lindsay brings her feet up onto the seat and hugs her knees.

  Damn. I shouldn’t have dumped it on her like that. I gnaw the inside of my cheek. “I’m sorry. It’ll probably be different for you. We’re going to get you in early. It’s only been, what, thirty minutes? Most people don’t know they have it until the fever hits.”

  I almost believe it myself.

  I pull onto the exit ramp, slowing as we approach an eighteen-wheeler at the stop sign. “I am truly sorry. I wish I could take it back. You don’t deserve anything like this.”

  The hazard lights on the semi in front of us start blinking. The rig shutters and stalls, blocking the single lane. We are pinned, both shoulders of the road too narrow to pass. “Ah, damn it. Hopefully, this won’t take too long.”

  “Chad?”

  I turn to her. “Yeah?”

  She makes circles on her palm with her index finger. “How many people have you...infected?”

  An icy prickle permeates inside my chest. I’m not prepared to answer. “Um...I don’t know.”

  Her lower lip trembles.

  “Wait, let me explain.”

  Lindsay’s face loses its color.

  “Um, first was Leanne. Doctor Morston died right after her. That’s two. And, uh, the rest were—”

  “How many?”

  “Twenty-three, twenty-four, maybe.” I cringe when the words pass my lips.

  “Twenty-four people? Did you drive each of them to the hospital, too?”

  “No. I’ve been working as a corrections officer. I’ve, uh, infected murderers, rapists, horrible people like that.” It’s easy to justify in my mind, but speaking the thoughts out loud makes them seem far worse.

  “You intentionally spread the virus to those people?”

  “Yes, but only to the most despicable humans.”

  “That’s murder.” Her words are tangled in barbed wire. “You might have infected me by accident, but all those other ones? It doesn’t matter if they’re bad people, it’s still murder.” She’s almost yelling. “Do you think you’re a real-life Dexter or something? Some viral vigilante?” Her hand inches toward the door handle.

  I shake my head. “No, I never wanted this. It’s the only way.” I turn, grab her eyes with mine. “I’ve tried to stop it. I’ve attempted suicide. More than once. But it’s like I’m possessed. This goddamn virus...it takes hold and controls me.”

  Lindsay rubs the door handle with a finger, her eyes darting from me to the door like a wild animal debating fight or flight.

  I fail to think of an explanation that doesn’t make me sound like a psychopath. She’s not my prisoner.

  “You can get out if you want. The hospital is four blocks to the right.”

  Lindsay scratches her shoulder, eyes still boring holes in my skull. The familiar purple blotches have already formed; it’s progressing faster than usual. She must notice the concern on my face. She looks at her arm, then back at me. Her ravenous glare is replaced by stark fear.

  The rumbling of the semi pulls my attention. The rig trudges forward.

  Lindsay sighs. “Can you just drive me, please?” She sounds like a reluctant teenager.

  “Of course.”

  The rest of the ride is silent. We pull into the emergency entrance, and I gesture to the sliding glass door. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

  “No.” She’s aged two decades during the short trip, her face grayed from the grim reality before her. She opens the door and slides out.

  “Lindsay.”

  She peers up at me without lifting her head.

  “If your hands get super sweaty, that’s when the virus is most contagious. But the regular hospital gloves seem to be safe.”

  She sucks her upper lip and nods.

  “Don’t let them give you ibuprofen; it makes the pain and itching worse. And have them keep your room as cold as possible.”

  She rubs her arm and nods once. Her eyes focus on the ground.

  I sigh. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

  She shrugs and slams the door. With her shoulders slumped forward and her chin at her chest, she walks into the hospital.

  Leanne’s face flashes in my mind. My last memory of her smile. I miss that smile.

  Doctor Morston’s concerned face is next. He had so many years of medicine ahead of him.

  And now, Lindsay. I recall how she gave up her seat so the elderly couple could sit next to each other. Another young life I’ve cut short.

  These are the ghosts that will forever haunt me.

  A car blares its horn. I wave ‘sorry’ and leave the hospital parking lot, getting back onto the highway. With all the symptoms gone, I feel incredible, but guilt is eating me from inside out. I can’t stop thinking about Lindsay, how I’ve effectively killed her by saving her from that speeding car. The silence in my truck makes me uneasy, so I turn on the radio.

  “...this breaking report. Due to concerns regarding the SVE-1 virus, Governor Patterson has issued a state-wide health and safety order for the next two months, effective immediately
. Full details can be found on the governor’s web site, but we’ll share a quick rundown of the two main points. First, all non-essential businesses are encouraged to close. Grocery stores are to remain open, but Starbucks has already committed to closing all of its locations. Second, the state urges all citizens to remain at home. If you need to go out into public, you are asked to wear rubber gloves and long sleeves. The governor’s office stresses that these are not requirements, it’s a voluntary quarantine, but if everyone does as they’re asked, this disease will run its course, and we can get back to normal. Folks, watch out for that Grim Fever. It’s going to be a long couple of months.”

  3

  Grocery stores are barren three days into the governor’s health and safety order. Dry pasta, meat, and milk are gone. Canned goods are cleared out save for one dented can of pinto beans; no, thank you. A sign taped to an empty shelf informs customers that paper towels and toilet paper won’t be in stock for two more weeks. I picked up a few newspapers, just in case. I shudder at the thought.

  My shopping list isn’t the only thing the quarantine is spoiling. How am I going to find someone to infect when the time comes? The prison furloughed me, so that’s off the table. Most businesses are closed except for grocery stores and gas stations, and the handful of people out and about mostly wear long sleeves, gloves, and masks. It’s almost impossible to judge a person’s character if they aren’t interacting with anyone.

  I’ve been wondering about people I know that have questionable morals. The only person I can think of would be Nick, another correctional officer at the prison. He sells drugs to the inmates, and he’s a prick in general. I’m pretty sure he cheats on his wife, too. But she’s pregnant, so I can’t do that to her and the unborn child. I have a month to come up with a plan, so time is one thing I have working for me.

  Maybe I’d consider Nick in an absolute emergency.

  According to the last news report, the national death toll has surpassed ten thousand. Ten thousand deaths, all because of me. The weight of that knowledge overwhelms me. For the past two years, I tried to be careful in my selection of...victims? I hate using that term, but what else could I call them? The prison idea worked well at all of my previous stops, but somehow the virus escaped the walls of the Spokane Correctional Facility. I controlled this disease for two years, but I should have known it was inevitable for something this contagious and deadly to escape my grasp.