The Flu (A Novel of the Outbreak)

by Jacqueline Druga

  Poco rubbed his forearm over his shirt

  “Of course, I’ll bring you back a tee shirt. Ohio State.” Lars grinned and shut his suitcase. “Well... how about you and I have some food before I embark on my journey? Sound good, my silent friend?”

  Smiling, Poco nodded.

  “Shall we?” Laying a hand on Poco’s back, Lars led him from the bedroom. He dreaded the beginning of any trip that took him from Madagascar. Shots, quarantines, all just to go back home. But once he was en route, Lars was fine.

  He enjoyed working with all the rare illnesses that seemed to float around him in Africa. But it always felt so good to take that yearly month-long trip to go home to Lodi, Ohio, where the worst illness that ever showed up was a few simple cases of the flu.

  * * *

  Lodi, Ohio

  It was an extremely hot August day, and Mick expected Dylan to be lounging in her pool. She usually did on hot days, because Dylan was never one to be pleasant in the heat. She called it her humidity Midol.

  Mick heard the splash of the water as he approached the back yard. He looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand once more with a shit-eating grin, rolled it up, placed it in his back pocket, and peeked through the trees into Dylan’s yard.

  He was right.

  She wore that red bathing suit he loved to see her in. Dylan lounged in her water world, head resting against one end, her feet dangling over the other, while the ten inches of water in the wading pool covered her midsection.

  Sneaking quietly for a man of his size, Mick made it to the wading pool. Just when he thought he had her, his face moving closer to Dylan’s, she popped open one eye.

  “Now did you honestly think you could sneak up on me?”

  “Shit.” Mick stole a quick kiss.

  “Hey.” She waved him away.

  “You won,” Mick stated.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I concede. Enticed, sexually aroused. You name, I am. You won. Where are the boys?”

  “Um...” Dylan’s head spun. “Dustin took them to the park.”

  “Good. Let’s make up.” Mick smiled.

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

  “Can’t make up out here. I’d have to arrest us.” He winked.

  “Mick.” She laughed his name.

  “Dylan, you started it with those emails. Let’s go inside. When will the boys be back?”

  “They just left.”

  “Even better.” He grabbed her hand. “I’ll carry you if you’d like.”

  “Mick... Mick, we can’t.”

  “You think the boys will be right back?” Mick asked. “‘Cause I have to tell you, posed shots or real, after seeing pictures fifteen through eighteen, I won’t be that long.”

  Dylan chuckled.

  “Come on, what do you say?” he brought his lips in softly. “Huh?”

  “We can’t, Mick. See...”

  “Are you on your period?”

  “No.” She laughed. “Look. We can’t because...”

  The sound of the back porch screen door slamming shut silenced Dylan, then Sam spoke. “I tried to take as little space in the closet as I could, but I think I gained more clothes or...” He stopped talking when he saw Mick.

  Mick’s jaw twitched as he looked at Dylan. “Clothes? Closet?”

  Dylan sat up. “Let me explain.”

  “Is he living here again?” Mick asked.

  Sam answered, “Yes, Mick.” he stepped off the porch. “He is living here again.”

  Mick slowly stood up. “I see.”

  Dylan reached up to him. “Mick, let me explain.”

  Mick pulled his hand away. “No need.”

  Dylan huffed. “You don’t want me to tell you what’s going on?”

  “What’s there to explain?” Mick asked.

  “A lot.”

  “I don’t need to hear it.”

  “Then fine.” Dylan crossed her arms. “I won’t tell you.”

  “Sorry I bothered you,” Mick said snidely then moved back from the pool.

  Sam stepped closer. “Mick, you have to remember she is a married woman, has been for quite some time. You didn’t think I’d be away from this house for good, now did you?”

  “Not at all,” Mick stated. “Expected your return.” Mick started to walk away but stopped. “However...” he said with a lifted finger, “that little marriage speech...” He reached to his back pocket and pulled out the rolled up paper. “You may want to give it to...” he handed the sheet to Sam then looked at Dylan with a smirk, “Tracy. See ya.”

  Dylan shrieked. “Mick! You asshole!”

  “Bye!” Mick wiggled a wave and kept moving.

  “Shit.” Dylan slipped trying to get out of the pool. “Sam, don’t look at that—”

  “Holy fuck,” Sam said, his eyes widening as he unrolled the paper.

  “Picture.” Dylan dropped into the pool in defeat. “I’m killing him.”

  A chuckle, a shake of his head, then a relief-filled ‘whew’ came from Sam. “And here I thought it was Mick.”

  Frustrated, Dylan sunk into the few inches of water.

  * * *

  Anchorage, Alaska

  The loud sneeze that carried from the living room took Isabella’s attention away from the sandwiches she prepared. “Bill?” She snickered as she grabbed a towel to wipe her mayonnaise-laced fingertips. “What the heck was...” Her eyes widened when Bill did it again.

  Thunderous, almost belly ripping, the sneeze reverberated up through his chest and sloppily exploded from his mouth.

  Snickering again, Isabella, Bill’s girlfriend of three years, walked into the living room. “Fall allergies acting up already?”

  He sat on the floor hooking up the camera to the television and he looked up. He rubbed under his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Either that or the change of temperature has taken its toll.”

  “Nah, it’s almost September. You get this way every September.”

  “I suppose,” Bill sniffed. “Don’t feel real clogged. But heavy, you know, like I’ll be feeling the effect tonight.”

  “I have some cold medication.” She pointed back toward the bathroom with her thumb.

  “Green liquid?” Bill asked.

  “Pills.”

  “I prefer the green...” Bill paused to release the sneeze that shook his whole body off balance. “Whoa.”

  Isabella chuckled again. “Bless you.”

  “Thanks.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Maybe I will take those cold pills. I’ll grab some of that green stuff for tonight. I wasted so much time lost in the damn Eskimo wilderness with Trevor that I’m back on a story tomorrow.” After finishing the hook-up, Bill started to stand as he sneezed again. “Holy Jesus.” He gave his head a quick shake.

  Reaching out, Isabella laid her hand on the side of Bill’s face. “You’re a little warm.”

  Bill took her hand, kissed it and smiled. “But I feel fine. And hungry...I’m hungry. So how about those sandwiches and we’ll kick back and watch my footage.”

  “Sounds good.” After placing a kiss on his cheek, Isabella started to walk away.

  “Could you grab me an ice tea if you—” Bill’s head flung forward with another violent sneeze. “Goddamn it!”

  A slight chuckle came from Isabella as she walked to the kitchen. She’d get the ice tea for Bill, but she was also getting those cold pills. Even though it amused her at first, she knew it wouldn’t be long before that sneezing started working on her nerves.

  * * *

  Los Angeles, CA

  His words were sluggish and a little slurred when Trevor spoke after splashing his face with cold water in the men’s washroom. “Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.” He grabbed a towel and dried his face. “Fuck.” He looked at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were dark, his face pale. He looked as bad as he felt.

  He tried to take a deep breath, but the passage of air didn’t seem to make it past mid-chest
before a deep cough occurred. It struggled, hard and thick, as if a barrier reef existed in his bronchial tube and Trevor had to break through. The only thing was, the sledgehammer he used was his cough, and Trevor wasn’t quite in control of that cough.

  It caused a sharp dagger of pain at the base of his neck down through the left side of his chest. His face flushed, heating the overly clogged sinus passages and causing them to drain down the back of his throat, choking him. He coughed over and over, out of control. His body shook, his diaphragm fighting and pushing. After what seemed to be a minute of unproductive struggling, Trevor felt a little crack occur, a break through the thick obstacle in his chest. With another cough, the cracking increased and the violent cough ended when the barricade shot from his chest like a rocket, up his throat and into his mouth.

  Trevor wanted to gag when the slimy thickness of it hit his tongue and he tasted the chlorine flavor. Instinctively he spit into the sink. He wouldn’t have bothered to look at it had he not noticed how heavy it landed against the porcelain basin. Turning on the faucet, he looked at the phlegm, so thick that it didn’t even budge in the force of the water that beat against it trying to wash it down the drain. It clung there like glue for the longest time, dark eerie green with a tinge of brown.

  Trevor was concerned more with getting rid of the unsightly mucus than the odd appearance of it. Feeling victorious, he watched it thin out enough to swirl around before disappearing.

  Mission accomplished.

  Down in the washroom, Trevor grabbed his thick folder of material and left. The editor had waited long enough. As he walked across the newsroom, he knew that he had to get out of there. Each step through the warm room caused the tickle to start again in his throat, and he fought diligently not to be a hacking fool when he walked into his boss’ office. He wanted to breeze in and shoot out unnoticed.

  “Just...” Trevor let out a slight cough, “wanted to drop this off. I...I have to go.” He turned to leave.

  Greg Benson looked up from behind his desk. “Whoa, wait. You can’t talk about this?” he called out.

  Trevor turned back around. “I’d rather not. Can we do it tomorrow?”

  “Holy shit. Look at you,” Greg commented. “Um, yeah, sure.”

  “Thanks. I just want to go home and go to bed,” Trevor said. “I feel like shit.”

  “You look it.”

  “Thanks.” Trevor moved back to the door.

  “Get better. You don’t look well. I hope it’s nothing serious,” Greg stated.

  “Nah.” Trevor shook his head before leaving. “Probably just...the flu.”

  * * *

  Deadhorse, Alaska

  Eruptile. A new word and it rightfully earned its place and definition in Webster’s Dictionary when Liza Burke invented it. She didn’t mean to, but no other word could describe the action of the massive amount of vomit when it spewed forth from her mouth. It happened without hesitation the split second she flew out of the small hut. Involuntarily and violently, the regurgitation powered forth as soon as she ripped the protective hood from her face.

  The loud splash caught Paul’s attention and he spun to see Liza slightly bent over her puddle, long strands of her stomach contents dangling from her mouth.

  “Son of a bitch.” Paul snapped with a point at Liza. “Quarantine her!” He shook his head in deep disgust, not from the sight of the mess, but from Liza’s behavior. She was a trained professional. He marched to the hut to see what had caused her reaction.

  Paul stepped inside. He wouldn’t give a repeat performance of Liza’s actions, but the sight made his stomach turn. Moving away, he took in a deep breath of the oxygen that fed into his suit. He expected to see virus victims, but what he saw in that hut was not what he expected.

  The children of the village must have been gathered together, kept away from the adults for some obscure reason. Their dead caretaker was in there as well. But the unsecured hut was not only a final resting place for the young, it was an open dinner plate for the animals left to fend for and feed themselves.

  The children were gnawed upon, their small bodies desecrated by the fangs of the hungry creatures who devoured them. Limbs, some showing bone, were scattered about the floor. Paul didn’t want to, but he had to look. He had to see the faces of the children. He had to check for signs of the flu. And though they displayed outward signs of their illness, it gave Paul a sense of relief that they had died prior to the ravishing their innocent bodies had suffered from the creatures of the wild.

  Deadhorse lived up to the first half of its name. The small village, population thirty, was wiped out.

  Did it stop here? Would it stop here? Paul could only pray. But he knew that his prayer was futile when he saw James Littleton pull up in a jeep. James, another research assistant from Winston, had been canvassing the area.

  Using the inner suit radio, Paul spoke to James. “Anything?”

  James, still wearing his bio suit, stepped out of the jeep. “Take a ride with me, Paul.”

  “I’ve only got a half hour of oxygen left. Let me change my tank,” Paul stated as he walked to James.

  “We got some where we’re going. Get in.”

  Paul did.

  Was it a mystery? A big surprise? Why was James being so secretive? Paul guessed James would start talking after he started the Jeep and they drove away from Deadhorse, but there wasn’t time. The jeep stopped a mile or so down the road.

  “We followed that smoke signal. Welcome to Prudhoe Bay,” James said and threw the jeep into park. “Neighboring community.”

  Paul stepped down from the jeep as well. He almost asked James about the town, but he didn’t need to. The eerie sight before him gave him the answer.

  Small fires burned about the small village. Every single home seemed to smolder. The closer Paul walked, the more he knew. The answer to the question, ‘who burned the village,’ came in the form of a man. One old man, bundled in furs, sat holding a stick while perched on a rock. A small fire for warmth was ablaze before him. The old man didn’t look up to Paul or James. Nor did he speak or move. He just sat there, staring out. His aged face held pain and fear, but more so than that, it projected the desolation and horror of everything he had witnessed.

  * * *

  Lodi, Ohio

  Experimental dishes for the benefit of Lars Rayburn’s visit went to waste at Jean’s Diner because no one really wanted to try the exotic-looking food, so Jean gave it to Mick knowing that he had a cast iron stomach, and Mick was grateful. Not only was it a free meal he took home, but one that he could easily warm by popping it into the microwave.

  The green wilted leaf dish looked hideous to Mick, but it didn’t smell bad. And he highly doubted, like everyone feared, that he would get sick. He may have caught every type of bug that flew through Lodi, but stomach bugs didn’t affect him. Only once did he have food poisoning and that was when he was eighteen and deliberately ate bad meat to prove to Dylan that he wouldn’t get sick.

  He had.

  Reminiscing about that horrid experience made Mick think about another...the dismantling of his relationship with Dylan. Not that the breakup bred violent cramping, vomiting, and diarrhea, but he felt bad just the same.

  Hot dish burning his hands as he removed it from the ‘Mick-o-wave’ as he called it, Mick heard the front door opening. “Hello?” he shouted out, setting the dish on the table.

  “Mick?” Dylan called his name.

  “Fuck,” Mick whispered. He sat down and placed himself in the mindset. He wasn’t going to break or give in. “Goddamn it, Dylan, go home.” He picked up a fork and buried his face in his food.

  “Mick,” she said as she stepped into the kitchen. “I have to talk to... what are you eating?”

  “I don’t know. Jean made it. Go home.” Mick stuck his fork in.

  “No, Mick.” Dylan was stern. “I really want to talk to you. I need to talk to you.”

  “Is it about us?” he asked.

  �
��Yes.”

  “Go home.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Now why would you...” Mick dropped his fork and finally looked up at her. “You got sun burn.”

  “Just a little.” Dylan lifted her tee shirt to show her stomach. “See. Not much. Anyhow...”

  “Dylan.”

  “Mick, shut up, all right?” She crossed her arms and noticed his meal again. “Is that any good? Smells good. Looks bad, but it smells good.”

  “Not bad. Want some?”

  Dylan shook her head. “Anyhow...first and most important,” she held up a finger, “I am not, will not, be back with Sam.”

  “Is he living at the house?”

  “Sam lost his job. He can’t afford the apartment in Wadsworth. It’s his house, Mick.”

  Only grunting ‘Uh-hmm,’ Mick returned to eating.

  “And I did some heavy, creative thinking. I believe my approach to you is really impressive.”

  “Heavy creative thinking?” Mick asked.

  “Yeah. See?” Dylan wore a pair of baggy cloth shorts. She reached into the front pocket and pulled out three playing cards. She laid them face down on the table in front of Mick. “All right.”

  “What the hell is this?” Mick asked. “These are cards to a kid’s game.”

  “Ignore that. It’s a metaphor. Get it?” she asked, giving a motion of her head to the cards. “Laying all my cards on the table. Get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it. Are you holding back, because there’s only three cards there.”

  “Three major points cover it all. Now...”

  “This is silly.” Mick pushed the cards to her. “Tigger’s gonna have a fit, you stealing his game.”

  “Tigger is the reason I’m doing this,” Dylan said.

  “Tigger sent you over with this?”