Grim Fever

by R Scott Mather

  I wish I’d had the foresight to realize that every person I touched would infect others, and they’d infect even more. Whenever I think of the number of people I’ve killed with this virus, I envision Leanne’s big brown eyes gazing at me from the end of a long tunnel. One by one, additional sets of eyes blink open like light bulbs switching on. The hall grows brighter, tens of thousands of eyes glaring at me until it’s so bright I’m blinded.

  Every time I close my eyes, Lindsay’s face is there. I’m tempted to call the hospital, act like a relative checking on her, although I know what the response will be. After three days, she’s in agony with the worst imaginable itch and excruciating pain throughout her body. Her fever is probably a hundred and five, at least, and her sheets are soaked-through only minutes after changing them. The rash envelops her skin, giving her the appearance of a bleeding eggplant. At this point, she’ll imagine her only relief will come with a swift death. Worse than knowing I essentially killed her is the unforgettable image of her face before she walked into the ER. Her deep brown eyes, wide with fear and gloom, are seared permanently into my mind.

  The rash on her arm came on so fast. What was that about? Symptoms usually take about twelve hours to manifest. At that rate, I wonder if she’s still alive. I pull out my phone and find the number for the hospital. It rings twice.

  “Spokane General Hospital,” a woman says. “Please hold.”

  “Okay.”

  An acoustic guitar ballad serenades me as I wait. A moment later, the woman comes back on the line. “Thank you for holding. This is Monica, how may I direct your call?”

  “Uh, hi. I’m calling to check on the status of a patient—Lindsay Green.”

  “I can’t give you patient information over the phone, sir.”

  “Oh. I...okay.”

  Damn.

  “Can I help you with anything else, sir?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  “You, too.”

  I pull into the hospital’s visitor lot and park. I’m happy to be out of the truck; the ride was terrible with watery eyes and a dribbling nose from the floral arrangement I picked up at the grocery store. Apparently, I’m allergic to chrysanthemums. Once inside, I approach the front desk.

  A large woman with freckles and red-framed glasses sits behind the counter. She wears light blue exam gloves and a lavender mask tucked under her frames. She rolls her chair back. “How can I help you?”

  I read her name tag. “Hi, Monica. I was wondering if you could give me the room number for Lindsay Green? She came in three days ago.”

  Monica pushes her glasses up her nose, her dubious green eyes fixed on me. She types without looking at the screen and clucks her tongue. “Did you call earlier?”

  Should I act like I’m a family member? What was Lindsay’s brother-in-law’s name? Rob? Rich? I panic. “I...yes.”

  Smooth, Chad.

  Monica’s eyes shift. I’d wager that she’s frowning behind the mask. “Lindsay Green is in the SVE-1 virus quarantine. No visitors allowed.”

  My shoulders go slack. “Oh. It won’t be much longer, then.”

  Monica scoots forward and looks around. “I’m not supposed to say anything, but...” Her eyelids close in a drawn-out blink. “There are three Grim patients back there. None of them are expected to make it past tomorrow.”

  I wonder if Lindsay infected the other two patients. “Thank you.”

  “Be safe,” she says.

  I turn to leave, then pause. I turn around and offer the flowers to Monica.

  Her eyes squint, her mask hiding a smile. “That’s sweet, but we can’t accept anything from outside.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  I dump the flowers in a trash can near the exit. Before I reach the door, the aroma of roasted coffee pulls me to a vending machine. I choose the largest size available and wait as it brews, the scent stimulating my nerves. I didn’t realize I was exhausted until now.

  The machine spurts and percolates, and I welcome the brief distraction from destroying Lindsay’s life. When the brew finishes, I grab the cup and take a sip. The coffee isn’t terrible—only slightly burnt—but it needs a few minutes to cool off.

  The parking lot is mostly empty. I assume there aren’t many visitors these days. I open the door and reach for the grab handle inside my truck, but the coffee cup slips from my other hand, bounces off the seat, and into my chest. The lid pops off, scalding java douses my shirt.

  Damn it.

  I pull my shirt off and climb into the seat. A red blotch in the shape of a pear glows on my chest.

  A match strike of panic ignites beneath my ribs. Below the pear-shaped burn, a purple splotch blossoms.

  4

  Twenty-three states have confirmed cases of Grim Fever. Nineteen have closed their borders and enacted shelter-in-place directives, among those Idaho and Oregon, leaving me landlocked in the Evergreen State. Washington’s governor hasn’t modified the health and safety order, but that could change any day.

  Interstate spread isn’t the only surprise. The sweats and full-blown fever came back only six days after sharing the infection. Body aches and rash joined the party, too. I can’t decide which is worse—the constant itch or my brain boiling inside my skull. I should have another three or four weeks before this happens, but for reasons unclear to me, it’s early and as bad as ever. The virus must be mutating. Which means I need to figure out a plan fast.

  The news reported resistance to the shelter-in-place orders, so there will be a handful of protests, which is my best chance of finding someone to infect. But how do I go about vetting them?

  I set the air conditioner to sixty-two. Frigid air doesn’t do much to ease the agony, but it’s the only thing that is remotely effective. My head throbs. I think someone inserted a rat inside my brain, and it’s burrowing its way out. Thinking makes the pain worse, so I shuffle into the living room and plop on the couch. Maybe something on TV will inspire me.

  Happy Days reruns.

  No.

  Soap commercial.

  Nope.

  The Bold and the Beautiful.

  Maybe later.

  Blender infomercial.

  No. Daytime television programming is less exciting than auditing an Intro to Philosophy course. I change the channel again.

  Local news coverage of protestors outside the capitol building.

  I leave it on. A male reporter stands about thirty feet from the crowd. He wears a surgical mask, safety goggles, blue medical gloves, and a rubber raincoat. “You can see two dozen protesters behind me. They claim that the health and safety order is unconstitutional and that the governor is a fascist.”

  That’s funny. The governor’s order explicitly suggested safety measures. There were no mandates, no enforcement for non-compliance.

  Chants ring out from the crowd. “Hoax virus, false flag! Hoax virus, false flag!”

  The reporter rolls his eyes, then nods once as he realizes he’s still on camera. “As you can hear, these folks believe that the SVE-1 virus, which has killed thirteen thousand Americans, is a hoax.”

  I imagine him biting his lip underneath his mask, fighting the urge for personal commentary.

  A potato-faced man with a scraggly beard approaches the reporter. He’s wearing a white t-shirt emblazoned with a red, white, and blue eagle. “This is a false flag event,” he says into the camera. “The government is flexing their muscles, showing how easy it is to send these sheep into their homes. Not me.” He gestures to his fellow protestors. “Not us. We will not be intimidated. We will not allow those in power to use fear to control us.”

  “What is your name, sir?” The reporter angles his microphone toward the man.

  “I’m Wade Linford, and I ain’t no sheep.”

  He continues on a red-faced tirade, but I mute the TV and grab my laptop from the end table. A quick Google search on Wade Linford returns a trove of hits. He leads a group called Freedom Against T
yrannical Establishments—FATE. I read through dozens of anti-government social media posts that display his questionable literacy. A free online criminal search reveals a few drug-related arrests and an incident two years ago in which he was arrested for inciting violence at a counter-protest for a rival presidential candidate. And—

  Holy shit.

  Wade Linford was arrested six years ago for killing a Native American teenager in Oklahoma. I Google it and find several articles. In the police interview, Mr. Linford said he thought the boy was an illegal immigrant who stole something from a convenience store. Despite video evidence that showed Wade stalking after the boy with a pistol at his side, they dropped the charges for lack of evidence. The boy was unarmed unless you consider a Snickers bar a deadly weapon. The young man had the receipt in his pocket.

  This is it. I have my target.

  I pull up FATE's Facebook page. They are planning another protest tomorrow morning at the Post Office.

  The tension in my neck relaxes, the thrumming in my head is now a quiet hum. Even the rash doesn't itch right now. It’s like the virus knows I’ve found a target, and it’s rewarding me with temporary relief.

  This Walmart is as empty as a maple tree branch in January. Ten minutes in, and I’ve seen only one customer—a frantic man jogging toward the register with a box of diapers. The food section looks like the remains of a tornado-swept town. The hunting section is picked over, but some of the clothing racks are still standing. After a half-assed search, I pluck a long-sleeve camouflage shirt from its hanger and a pair of dark Wranglers. A red ‘USA’ trucker hat catches my attention, so I nab it from the end cap and smile. My ensemble is complete.

  My phone rings, but I don’t recognize the number, so I let it go to voicemail. I go through the self-checkout. The shirt and hat total seventeen bucks and some change. I need to keep track of these things now that I won’t receive a paycheck for who-knows-how-long.

  I get into my truck and plug my phone in. The screen lights up, and I remember the voicemail, so I tap the button and listen.

  “Chad?” a woman’s voice says. “I need you to call me back at this number as soon as you can. This is Lindsay Green.”

  5

  My tires scream as they grip the asphalt, the stench of burnt rubber assaulting my nostrils. Four cars on the entire road, and I’m behind the one idiot who slams the brakes of his minivan for no apparent reason. “Asshole,” I say through the windshield.

  That’ll show him.

  Lindsay didn’t answer when I called back, but I left a voice message. A surreal chill surrounds me. She can’t be alive. In some crazy cosmic accident, another Lindsay Green contacted me. Right?

  The jerk in the minivan turns off, so the street in front of me is clear. Typically, the evening rush hour would have me crawling on this road, but I’m cruising at a steady fifty-four and only ten minutes from my house. I’m not sure why I’m in such a rush to get home, but panic feels right at the moment.

  Finally, the phone rings. “Hello?”

  “Chad? I’m, like, shaking right now,” Lindsay says—the Lindsay from a few days ago that should be dead right now. Her voice is crisp and lively, a vast difference from the last time I heard her speak.

  Relief flutters through me like a swarm of butterflies on meth.

  “Tell me what happened.” I feel like I’m talking to a ghost. “How are you—”

  “I’m scared, Chad. There were these people that came to see me. I just...it didn’t feel right.” She’s talking too fast for me to comprehend.

  “Wait. What people?”

  “A creepy red-headed guy with a goatee and an Asian lady in glasses. They’re from the CDC.”

  “CDC? That makes sense. You survived a fatal disease, so it’s not surprising that they’d want to talk to you.”

  “Yeah, but it seemed weird. Like, they really didn’t care that I survived. They were more interested in...I don’t know. They asked a bunch of questions, like if I’ve traveled out of the country, where I live, how I think I got infected.”

  My heart rate ratchets up.“What did you tell them?”

  “I told them I didn’t know. Don’t worry—I didn’t say anything about you.”

  Phew. “Did you get their names?”

  “The guy’s name was Mc-something, and the lady didn’t say hers. But the weirdest part was that they wanted me to go with them to Atlanta. Like, immediately.”

  “That’s where the CDC headquarters are.”

  “The red-headed guy said that. But the way he looked at me was scary. I don’t know what it was, but I didn’t trust him.”

  “You didn’t trust me at first, but here we are talking.”

  “I almost died because of you.”

  Dang, that stings. “You’re right,” I say, shaken. “Uh, so what did you do?”

  “I told them I needed to think about it, and they got pissed. The guy was screaming at me that millions of people would die because I wouldn’t go with them. And the lady...she was freaky. She just sat there and glared at me like I called her kid ugly or something. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure she said anything the entire time.”

  “So, I assume you’re not on your way to Atlanta right now with a freaky Asian woman and a red-haired guy?”

  Lindsay huffed a little laugh. “No. I’m at my sister’s.”

  “How did you get out of the hospital?”

  “After they asked me all those questions, I said I needed to use the bathroom. I went, but I had a weird tingle in my gut telling me not to go back. I walked out the front door, found a guy smoking outside, and asked to use his phone. I called my sister, and she picked me up.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why...I was hoping you would know what to do.”

  Huh. I’m flattered that Lindsay would think I’d have the narrowest idea of what to do, but I’m at a loss for words, let alone actions. I stumble over empty thoughts. The only thing I can think to say is, “How did you get my number?”

  “Seriously? You think there are thousands of Chad Chaucers wandering around Spokane?”

  I chuckle. “Fair point.”

  Any sort of solution eludes me. I’m not sure why she’s so freaked out about the CDC; I wish I’d realized sooner that I should share my survival with medical professionals, but I’d infected dozens of people before I thought of it and worried I might be arrested. Maybe I can convince her to talk to them, so she doesn’t tumble to the same level of guilt I’ve been living with. “Can you meet up to talk in person? I’m sure we can come up with something together.”

  Silence.

  “Lindsay?”

  A rustling noise. “Um, yeah. Okay.” More rustling. “My sister is coming, too.”

  “Sounds good. How about the Starbucks where we met? It’s closed, but we can meet up in the parking lot.”

  Lindsay huffs. “You have a thing for irony, don’t you?”

  She’s funny. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Lindsay talks to someone else away from the phone. A swishing sound comes from her end of the line, then, “‘K, see you then.”

  The last two minutes of my life sent me chasing my thoughts in a tornado. I try to mentally catch up. Loneliness has been my only friend for the past two years, give or take a month, but Lindsay surviving gives me a glint of hope that I might have someone else around who understands. Unless she has to go to the CDC in Atlanta; then, I’ll be stuck in solitude again. This is a dilly of a pickle.

  The Starbucks is dark and empty. No patrons sipping macchiatos on the patio, no cars in the lot, just vacant asphalt. The only other person around lies asleep on the bench, his bottle wrapped tightly in his arms. I shift into park, and the service indicator illuminates on the dashboard. Overdue for a tune-up. Hell, my body could use a tune-up now that the headache has shifted into a steady vibration. The itchiness is making its way back, too, but still nowhere near as bad as earlier. I slide off the
seat, shut the door, and lean against the fender.

  Two minutes pass, then my phone buzzes. A new text message from Lindsay:

  Kristin doesn’t know you infected me.

  That’s good to know.

  Seconds later, a burgundy SUV pulls into the lot and parks two spots away from my truck.

  I wave.

  Lindsay gets out of the passenger door. She’s wearing knee-length yoga pants and a mint green tank top, her hair pulled into a ponytail. Another woman, presumably Lindsay’s sister, opens her door and peers over the roof.

  “Chad, this is Kristin. Kristin, Chad.”

  Kristin waves curtly and gently presses her door closed. She immediately directs her attention to her phone, leaning on her elbows atop the SUV’s hood. Her appearance differs from Lindsay’s in just about every way—light caramel-colored hair at her shoulders, fair skin with freckles, and about six inches taller. The only common trait between the two is their deep brown eyes.

  Lindsay approaches me. She looks so much more vibrant than when I saw her last. Granted, today she’s not marching off to her deathbed. I’m not sure if I should hug her. I look at Kristin. She’s eyeballing me like a pit boss behind a blackjack dealer.

  “Hey,” Lindsay says.

  “Hi. Uh...” She’s at arm’s length. Here goes nothing. I extend my arms and lean in.

  “Oh,” she says, her voice peppered with surprise. She hugs me, giving two quick pats on my back, then releases. I look past her toward Kristin, who rolls her eyes and returns to her phone.

  “I was thinking. Maybe it’s best to talk to the CDC people. See if there’s a way where you don’t have to go to Atlanta.”

  Lindsay’s mouth curls into a frown, and her eyes shift to the ground. “Oh.”