Grim Fever

by R Scott Mather

  “They probably want some blood samples to see how you beat the Grim.”

  She shrugs, eyes still averted. “Kristin said the same thing.”

  Clearly, going to the CDC isn’t her top choice. “They scared you that much, huh?”

  Lindsay pinches her lips together and nods. “I don’t want to see those people again. Maybe I can call my regular doctor.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea,” I say. “Tell me about the hospital visit. I’m sure they were going nuts when you pulled through.”

  She lifts her shoulder. “I guess. I think they were all more surprised than anything. One nurse even said I probably had a false positive test.”

  “What treatments did they give you?”

  “They had me on antiviral medication—ay-cycle...Acyclovir.”

  That’s what they gave Leanne right before her symptoms erupted.

  Lindsay nibbles a fingernail. “The nurses and doctors said it was working better than any of the other patients, but then I guess it got worse. Like, way worse. You were right, it’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever been through. I wanted to die.”

  “But you’re alive.”

  “I’m alive.”

  She looks over her shoulder at Kristin, then back to me. Says in a low tone, “Can I ask you about...like, when you have to...you know.”

  I swallow hard. I knew this would come up. How much do I tell her? Do I go into detail about how I online stalked my next vict—person? I decide to let her ask questions and gauge my answers appropriately. “Ask me anything.”

  “You said it was every month that you have to...” She lets the words evaporate.

  “Yes. Usually.” I look at my glistening palms.

  Her eyebrows squeeze together. “What?”

  “I already have the symptoms.”

  She squints, then her eyes widen, and her jaw loosens as the realization hits home. “Oh my gosh. Right now? But—”

  I nod. “I have a plan.”

  “A plan to kill someone?” she says in a harsh whisper.

  “He deserves it. Trust me.”

  “Kristin’s husband is a cop. Ron would arrest me if he knew—”

  “I wish I could find another way, Lindsay.”

  Kristin pops her head up from her phone. “Linds,” she says. “Let’s go. Ron has to go to his dad’s, and I need to get back to watch Maddie and David.”

  Lindsay looks at me, gnaws on her lower lip.

  I swallow. “Do you, uh...I can drop you off.” It comes out more like a question. “If you want.”

  “Hang on.” Lindsay walks around to the SUV. Kristin stands upright, crosses her arms over her midsection. She looks less-than-pleased with what Lindsay has to say. Seconds later, Kristin gets in the SUV alone and starts the engine.

  Lindsay comes back toward me as her sister leaves the parking lot. She smirks. “Kristin doesn’t trust you.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  Lindsay cocks her head to the side, squints one eye. “We’ll see.”

  Heat blossoms on my cheeks.

  “So, you have a plan?” she says.

  I tell her about Wade Linford and FATE. How I’ll go to the rally tomorrow and shake his hand. Lindsay’s eyes narrow as she looks me over. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. “Google him,” I say.

  She pulls out her phone and finds an article covering Wade’s murder of the Native American teen. Her mouth hangs wide open as she reads. Fury ignites in her eyes. “I hate to say it, but you’re right—he deserves it.”

  We stand in silence. I don’t want to be pushy, so I wait for her to gather her thoughts.

  “I want to go with you,” she says. “Tomorrow.”

  “To the protest?”

  She nods.

  “Okay. I don’t think it’ll be that exciting, though.”

  “I don’t care. I want to see how you do it.”

  “All right. You got it.” Her fitness guru outfits aren’t going to cut it, though. “Do you have any clothes that would help you fit in at an anti-government protest?”

  She looks to her left, down the street. “Maybe. My apartment is three blocks away. Let’s go check.”

  The last time I was in this part of town, I was surrounded by two dozen people after dumping vodka on Lindsay. Now, the streets are empty. It’s good to see most people taking the shelter-in-place order seriously. If I weren’t the root cause for the spread of the disease, I’d lock myself away in my house, too. We reach the intersection where I pulled Lindsay away from the speeding car. She stops abruptly and puts her arm across my chest. “Watch out,” she says. “This intersection isn’t safe.” She looks left then right in exaggerated movements.

  I laugh so hard I have to put my hands on my knees, and Lindsay’s ears turn tomato red as she belly chuckles.

  I finally catch my breath. “You’re right. Can’t be too safe.”

  We cross the street—against the orange hand signal because there are exactly zero cars out right now—and head down the block. Two birds chatter on top of an awning.

  “What did you do before you got the virus?” Lindsay asks. “For work, I mean.”

  “I coached high school soccer and taught driver’s ed.” I miss the simplicity of my old life. “What about you?”

  “I’m a network engineer, and I volunteer at the Spokane Reservation a few days a month teaching technology to the elementary kids.”

  “Wow. That’s fantastic.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What drove you to volunteer?”

  “No one gives those kids a chance.” Her voice is stern. “They’re mostly left to fend for themselves. The parents try, but there’s a major substance abuse problem. I never lived on the reservation, but I have cousins there. I try to do my part to help.”

  “I didn’t realize—”

  “I’m half. My dad is white.” She’s annoyed like she’s had to explain this a thousand times.

  I grimace. “Forgive my ignorance.”

  She shakes her head and twists her lips. “No, it’s okay. So, what do you do for fun?”

  I huff. “Not much anymore. I read a lot, watch Netflix. Pretty boring existence. I used to play in a co-ed soccer league with my wife. And we took weekend trips with two other couples that we played with.” I kick a loose pile of mulch from the sidewalk back into its place. “But I try not to get close to people now.”

  Lindsay sighs.

  Her life will change, and I bet it’s hitting her now. The kids she works with, her sister’s family...everything will have to change.

  “What did you tell your sister about me?”

  Lindsay smirks. “I told her we just started seeing each other.” Her face stiffens, and she quickly adds, “Don’t get any ideas; it was just a cover story.”

  I nod, unsure of what to say.

  We walk in silence for another block, then turn a corner. Lindsay points to a modernized four-story brick building with long, narrow windows. “Here we are.”

  “Nice. You like it here?”

  “Eh. Looks better on the outside.” She points to a balcony three floors up. “That’s my place.”

  Flowerbeds bookend the path leading to an exterior stairwell. Bright pink puffy things, white...tulips, maybe, and...chrysanthemums. Yuck. I follow Lindsay up the steps. I’m looking down at my feet—as a gentleman does when following a lady up stairs—and we collide awkwardly. I didn’t see her stop.

  “Shoot,” she says in a panicked whisper. “Go back down. Now.”

  I turn and take three steps at a time. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just go.”

  I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  Lindsay blows past me, trampling through the flowers and around a corner.

  I follow. When I come around the corner, she’s ten yards ahead of me in a dead sprint and racing toward the parking lot. I haven’t put the old legs into this gear in a while, and my knees creak with every step.

  Lindsay ducks behind a half-wall. I f
inally catch up, winded like I just finished a ninety-minute soccer match. I round the corner and let gravity tug me to the grass. “What the hell’s going on?” I struggle to get the words out through my out-of-shape breathing.

  Lindsay’s eyes are wide, her breaths deep but controlled. She shakes her head.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I saw him—that CDC guy. He was at my door.”

  It makes sense the CDC would want to track her down. She could help them find a cure for this awful disease—which, selfishly, would make my life easier. But something about the guy has her terrified.

  “You’re sure it was him? Not a neighbor, or—”

  “Yes. I’m sure.” She looks at me, visibly annoyed. “There are only four apartments up those stairs. Mine, two vacant ones, and a miserable old man that never has visitors.” Her jaw stiffens. “It was him.”

  “What do you want to do? I can take you back to your sisters.”

  Lindsay looks beyond me, not focused on anything in particular. “I don’t want to get Kristin involved. She’s already annoyed with me, and having government people track her down would put her over the edge. She would never speak to me again.”

  “Do you have anyone you can stay with?”

  She shakes her head, yanks a few blades of grass out of the ground.

  A minute passes.

  Words are lost on me.

  Lindsay sighs. Her eyes dart up at me, and she shrugs. “Well...”

  6

  Lindsay lies dead asleep on the couch, curled in a fetal position. The throw blanket is tucked under her chin with her baby blue socks peeking out from the bottom. I’m glad she could get comfortable.

  I open the cabinet and pull out a coffee mug, trying to be as stealthy as possible. I wonder if Lindsay drinks regular coffee, or if she strictly drinks the sweetened Starbucks beverages. I check on her to see if the coffee maker woke her, but she hasn’t budged. I make myself a bowl of cereal and eat in silence while re-reading my favorite Gillian Flynn novel. The book helps me escape reality, where every cell of my body either itches or hurts.

  I’m deep into the book when Lindsay pops her head up from the couch.

  I glance at the clock—eight twenty-six. “Good morning,” I say.

  “Morning.” Her voice is scratchy, hair a disorganized puzzle.

  I hold up my empty mug. “Want some coffee?”

  She shakes her head. “Can I have some water, please?”

  “Of course.” I pour a glass of water and take it to her. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Good.” She downs half the water without coming up for breath, then lets out a satisfied sigh. She pushes down on the seat cushion. “Your couch is comfy.”

  “You hungry? I have little to offer besides frozen waffles and Lucky Charms. Or I can make eggs.”

  “I’m okay for now. Thanks.” She looks at the recliner where she put last night’s Walmart purchase—a red USA t-shirt and Wranglers. “What time is the protest?”

  “Noon. We have about three hours until we need to leave.”

  She gulps the rest of the water. “Mind if I take a shower?”

  “Not at all. I put a towel on the counter in the hall bathroom.”

  Lindsay thanks me and gets up, arches her back and stretches, then grabs her protest clothes. She catches me watching her, smiles, and disappears into the hall.

  I shower and dress in my room. The Wranglers are stiff, which amplifies the rash. I might as well wrap my body in Saran Wrap. I head out to the living room just as Lindsay comes out of the bathroom dressed in her red shirt and jeans. Her hair lays straight, a few inches past her shoulders. The way it frames her face changes her entire appearance. In a pleasant way.

  “Look at us,” I say. “Couple of regular old government-hatin’ patriots.”

  Lindsay laughs. “Ugh. These jeans are so tight.” She raises her leg to stretch the denim. “This is going to be annoying.”

  I rub my hands on my pants. “A bit starchy, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah. I should have got a size larger. Oh, well. I’ll make it work. Can I have a bowl of Lucky Charms?”

  “You got it.”

  I sit at the table with her and continue reading my book. Lindsay’s spoon clanks against the bowl. I’ve never had someone inside my home. Hell, I haven’t had anyone I’d call a friend since I left Philadelphia.

  An image of Leanne enters my mind. The cabin we rented in the Poconos with the Fletchers. We’d sit around the fire, drinking wine and laughing. The last trip we took before—

  “Should I put this in the sink?” Lindsay says.

  “Sure. Thanks.” The memory evaporates.

  “What should we do while we wait?”

  I’m not used to entertaining. “I...don’t know. Watch a movie?”

  “Sure. What do you like?”

  I lift the book and show her the cover. “Dark thrillers, mostly. What about you?”

  “I like anything. I could go for something dark.”

  We settle on Gone Girl.

  We make light conversation on the drive to the protest, though the sobering reality of what I’m about to do lingers below the surface. We approach the post office, and we’re directed to an area lined with orange and white barricades. We park two blocks away. Signs bob above the roofs of the vehicles in the lot. ‘Lockdown Is A Scam,’ ‘Sheep Get Slaughtered,’ and my favorite, ‘Grim Fever Is A Hoxe.’ Misspelling isn’t a crime punishable by death, I remind myself.

  We fall in line with a group of about twenty folks marching toward the post office. Some are chanting, others remain stoic. Lindsay leans close to my side, her shoulder pressed against my arm. I scan the crowd for Wade Linford, but he looks so similar to most of the men here that it’s become something of a needle in a haystack search.

  Police presence is heavy despite the small crowd. No one is subject to arrest for disobeying the health and safety directive since it’s technically a suggestion. But with or without my presence, everyone here is at risk of infection. I thought perhaps the police were here to keep the peace if an opposing group showed up, but the only instance of a counter-protest is a sign stuck into the ground that reads, “I would counter-protest, but I’m being socially responsible and staying home.”

  I think I have a new favorite sign.

  We’re led like cattle through barricades into a corral that abuts the post office property. I expect shoving and jostling for position, but most people are respectful of personal space. Still, Lindsay leans into me. Three men make their way to the front of the crowd. Wade Linford stands in the middle, holding a bullhorn. The group is small enough, though, that he doesn’t need it.

  “Hello,” Wade says, the bullhorn to his side. “Thank you all for coming out and supporting your God-given right to assemble.” Hoots and whistles ring out. “But the government,” he says the word as if it’s poison on his tongue, “wants us all to believe that ordering us to stay in our homes is for our own protection.” More cheers. “I say bullshit. They’re trying to put martial law in place.” Even louder cheers.

  I look at Lindsay. She’s gritting her teeth and clenching her fists.

  “Easy,” I say. “We need to fit in here.”

  She rolls her eyes and unclenches her jaw.

  Wade continues, “We can’t fault the sheeple staying home for falling for the lies of big government. We need to educate them that this so-called virus is a hoax and that the supposed deaths are made up.” Shouts fill the air. “Don’t blame our brothers and sisters for being unenlightened. Blame the govern—”

  A crack followed by the scattering of glass shards interrupts Wade. He flinches and spins toward the sound. A window in the post office behind him has a stone-shaped hole in it.

  “Fuck the government,” a man yells. The crowd shifts, fists pump in the air, and the brief silence following the broken window is replaced by a medley of chants and commotion.

  Lindsay grabs my hand.

  I panic at her touch,
but I’ve already infected her.

  “I don’t like this,” she says, her voice streaked with alarm.

  “Me neither.” I squeeze her hand and try to pull away from the teeming hoard, but a hefty man behind us with a wispy beard shouts, “Down with the Feds!” and pushes his way forward, knocking Lindsay to one side and me to the other.

  “Chad!”

  Police whistles shriek in my ears and a flurry of swinging nightsticks rains down on the penned-in crowd.

  “Hang on,” I say, but my shout is drowned out in the mayhem.

  A scrawny guy wearing a gas mask shoves Lindsay. She lands hard on her knees.

  I want to grab him by the throat, crush his larynx, infect him with my curse. Instead, I ball my fists to avoid touching anyone and use my elbows to swim-move through the rushing crowd. But I’m working against the undertow, tugged and pushed and pulled further away.

  I can’t get to Lindsay.

  I’m knocked side to side, back and forth like a buoy in a storm. I duck under an exposed hairy gut, and spot Lindsay on all fours, bracing against the swaying sea of chaos. I fight to get to her, but I’m stuck. When a break in the crows opens up, she pops up like a boxer off the mat and shoves the lanky jerk who pushed her, knocking him to his ass. She snarls like a starving wolf, throws an elbow to the temple of a bald guy with neck tattoos, and kicks another man in the kneecap, sending him to the ground in a heap.

  Damn. Does she train with Ronda Rousey?

  Lindsay surveys the assembled mass, finds me, and gestures toward the back of the corral. I nod and turn, side-stepping a college-aged boy holding a baseball bat. I lunge forward and hurdle the barricade. I don't see the cop to my left until he swings his nightstick. An explosion of pain rifles through my shoulder. I nearly crumble. “I’m trying to leave, man.”

  “Get the fuck out of here, prick.”

  I want to tell him I’m not one of them, but what’s the point? I move to the other side of the coral where Lindsay should be. My collarbone throbs, hot with pulsating blood flow. I move it around in a small circle. Hurts like hell, but I don’t think anything’s broken.

  Police are wrangling the rowdy protestors while a man in the back records it on his phone. “Fascists,” he hollers. This is exactly what these people want.