I search for Lindsay, but there are too many red shirts in the crowd. I spot a police officer with a woman wrapped in his arms, dragging her backward. I dash toward him when I realize he has Lindsay.
“Hey,” I yell. “Let her go.”
The officer reaches for his gun, his other arm pinning Lindsay against his chest.
I hit the brakes and put my hands up in front of me. We stare at each other for countless beats. Neither of us knows what to do amidst the mayhem. I’m soaked in sweat, terrified I’ll puke with no warning.
Someone shouts, “Hey,” and a brick-sized rock flies from the direction of the voice and slams the officer in the cheek. His head flings to the side, and he drops onto the sidewalk.
Lindsay runs to me, wraps her arms around me. “Holy shit. Let’s go.”
“Yeah.”
This couldn’t have gone worse. My hands are oozing sweat. I need to pass the infection on. I could grab any one of the protestors, but doing that without knowing what type of person they are...I just can’t. We walk toward the lot, a smattering of police eyeing us. I try to play cool, but the pain writhing in my shoulder is intolerable. I try to hold back from letting the agony show on my face.
We reach the parking lot and search for my truck. We walk through a few rows before I see it. I open my mouth to speak when Lindsay grabs my arm.
“Chad. Look.” She points to a red pickup with massive oversized tires. Four men stand by the tailgate.
Wade Linford is among them.
I look at Lindsay, and she nods her head toward the men. “Go.”
I suck up my last bit of energy and walk toward them. “Mr. Linford?” I say when I’m ten feet from his truck.
Wade tosses a bundle the size of a baseball into the bed of the truck. He turns, mouth pursed, eyes like a rabid dog. Two of the other men reach behind their backs.
I slow my pace, put my hands up. “I just want to thank you for all you’ve done. For FATE helping to educate those sheeple.” I have an urge to rinse my mouth out after saying the words.
“Yeah?” He exchanges glances with the other men and nods. They each fold their hands in front of themselves, and the third man walks away. “Well,” Wade says, “thanks for supporting the movement. What’s your name?”
I say the first name that pops in my head. “Gil. Gil Flynn.”
Wade extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Gil.”
An electric pulse flows through my fingers. I grab his hand and shake.
He pulls his hand away, his mouth turned like he’s just sucked on a rotten fish.
“Sorry,” I say. “A little sweaty after a tussle with a cop.”
Wade grins. “It’s all right, brother. I have to get back to some business here, but I appreciate your kind words.”
I walk back to Lindsay, and vigorous energy floods my body. I feel like I’m striding on cloud tops.
The euphoria dwindles, but I feel as fresh as a newborn despite the throbbing in my shoulder.
Lindsay has been quiet for most of the ride. “You okay?” I say.
“Yeah.” She draws circles on her palm with a finger. “Reliving the moment.”
“That was intense. You’re a fighter, though.”
“No, I...” She sighs and lets the words evaporate. She clears her throat. “So, are you, like, better now?”
I nod. “I feel like a new person.” Hopefully, it lasts longer than eight days this time.
We turn onto my street. A cup of coffee sounds amazing right now.
“So that Linford guy will die in a few days?” Lindsay says.
“Yes.”
She exhales through her nose. “But what if he doesn’t? What if he’s like me?”
“He’s not like you. You’re special. Besides, we got you into the hospital right after you were inf—”
“Who’s that?”
A black sedan is parked in front of my house.
“Oh, shoot.” She unbuckles and dives down onto the floorboard.
“What are you—” Then I see what scared her.
A man wearing a black suit steps out of the sedan, sunlight gleaming in his copper hair.
7
“Stay down,” I say. “I’ll get rid of them.”
Lindsay pinches her eyes shut, draws in long breaths through her nose, and exhales slowly through pursed lips.
I pull into my garage and shut off the truck. “Stay in here and don’t peek out.”
“Okay.”
I slide out of the truck. The red-haired man walks up my driveway. “Good afternoon. I’m Alex McNulty.” He reaches a hand forward.
I shake his hand. He’s safe; the virus is dormant after I infected Wade Linford. “Can I help you with something?”
“Do you know a Lindsay Green?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Nope.”
McNulty frowns. “How do you know her?”
“We met the other day at Starbucks.” Apparently, I’m playing Two Truths and a Lie.
“When was the last time you spoke with her?”
I cross my arms over my chest. Classic power move. “What’s this about?”
“I’m with the CDC. I just want to talk with Ms. Green.”
“CDC?”
“We think she may have contracted SVE-1.”
Cue the acting skills. “Whoa. Grim Fever?”
“Yes. It’s important we find her.”
“She’s going to die. Why are you worried about her?”
“We want to find her because we believe she survived.”
“Really? And how did you find me, exactly?”
“We traced a call from her cell phone to yours.”
“The CDC traces phone calls now?” I hope Lindsay isn’t using her phone right now.
“We do when it can help end an epidemic.”
“Sorry, Mr. McNair. I don’t know where she is.”
“It’s McNulty. Have you had physical contact with Ms. Green?”
Yes, I say in my head. “No,” I say out loud.
“You’re sure? No handshakes, hugs, or anything of that nature?”
“I’m sure. We chatted at Starbucks, exchanged numbers. I haven’t seen her in person since.”
He eyes me as if he’s appraising a painting for an auction house.
“Okay, Mr. Chaucer. She has my contact information. Please have her get in touch with me.”
“I don’t think I’m ever going to talk to her again.”
McNulty glares at me doubtfully.
I shrug. “I’m not going near anyone who has the Grim.”
McNulty huffs through his nose. “Well, if you happen to speak to her again...” He lets the words linger, turns, and walks toward his car. A tiny woman I hadn’t noticed before sits in the passenger seat, her head barely visible behind the dashboard. She holds up a hand, and McNulty stops. The woman gets out of the vehicle and approaches him. Must be the woman Lindsay described. She says something to McNulty.
He spins, and together they approach me. “Mr. Chaucer,” McNulty says. “This is Dr. Choi. She would like you to call Lindsay and give me the phone, so I can speak with her.”
“No.” The word flies off my tongue like a dart.
McNulty looks at the doctor. She nods once. He steps into my personal space.
I don’t flinch.
“We know you drove Lindsay Green to the hospital.”
His breath smells like hot onions. I nearly flinch.
“We can play this your way,” he says. His onion vapor assaults my nose. “But you won’t like that outcome, Mr. Chaucer.”
“Since when does the CDC make threats to civilians?”
“Since now.”
That wasn’t as intimidating as I’m sure he hoped it would be. “Since you have no authority to carry out your threats, I’m asking you to please get off my property.”
McNulty looks at Choi.
She blinks and turns toward their car.
; “You’re making a gigantic mistake,” McNulty says. “You’re putting lives in danger.”
I shrug.
McNulty huffs through his nostrils. “If you hear from Lindsay Green, please encourage her to contact me.” He reaches into his coat pocket. The jacket lifts momentarily, and I spot a gun holstered on his waist. He hands me a card.
“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. McNealy.”
He glares at me, nostrils flaring. Dr. Choi taps his elbow, and they both retreat to their car.
When did the CDC start arming its employees?
After the black sedan turns the corner, I go back into the garage and open the driver-side door of my truck. Lindsay looks up at me, eyebrows furrowed.
“They’re gone,” I say.
She shuts her eyes and sucks in a deep breath.
“The guy—McNulty—had a gun.”
“What? Why would the CDC need guns?”
“That’s what I thought. We need to get rid of our phones.”
“Why?” She opens the door and gets out. “Are they tracing my calls or something?”
“Yep. They found my number on your call log. That’s how they found out where I live.”
Lindsay groans. “This makes no sense. I knew there was something weird with them.”
“I don’t know what the hell is going on. All I can figure is, if they can trace calls, they can probably track the location of a phone. And yours is right here.”
“But they didn’t know I was here.”
I shrug, then grab a hammer from my workbench and set my phone on the ground, screen up. I lift the hammer over my head and—
“Wait,” Lindsay says. “Can’t we just hide them somewhere? Then if they try to track us, it’ll lead them to wherever the hiding spot is?”
That’s a much better option than smashing a thousand-dollar device. “Great idea. Where can we hide them?”
“I don’t know.” She looks at the ceiling, eyes trailing from side to side in deep thought. Her finger draws circles on her palm again. “Do you have a post office box?”
I shake my head. “No. I have a locker at the prison, but that won’t work.”
Lindsay cocks her head. “We could hide them in my office downtown.”
“Can you get in?”
She sucks in air through her teeth. “My badge is at home. Dang.”
I wrack my brain for an accessible spot that would be safe for a phone for—crap, how long will this go on?
“Let me call my sister. I don’t want to get her involved, but maybe Ron can help.”
I swallow hard. “Are...are you going to tell him everything?”
“I won’t tell him about you. But I will tell him about those CDC jerks.”
We go inside, and Lindsay calls her sister. I get the impression that it’s not going well. Lindsay is defensive and apologetic, tears threaten to irrigate her cheeks. I don’t know what brother-in-law Ron can do for us, but I hope it’s something because Lindsay is putting herself in a tough spot with her sister.
I sit on the couch and turn on the TV. News coverage of strict lockdowns across the nation is endless. They display a map with a red overlay of areas struck by Grim Fever. The country looks like a paintball target. I thought I was being careful, limiting those I infected to restricted areas. I don’t know where I went wrong, but clearly, I wasn’t as careful as I thought.
Or are there others like me out there?
Lindsay says, “Thank you,” and ends the call. She lumbers into the living room and collapses onto the other end of the couch.
I mute the TV. “How’d it go?”
Lindsay exhales like she’s blowing out candles. “Kristin is pissed. She said I should have just gone with the CDC people.”
“I take it she didn’t understand your concern with them.”
“No. She said I’m being paranoid and unreasonable.” She shakes her head. “Maybe I am. I don’t know.”
“Well, the guy was carrying a gun, so I think you’re right to be worried. What about Ron?”
“Today is his first day back on duty since his mom died. Kristin doesn’t want to call him now, but she said she’d talk to him when he gets home tonight.”
“Well, at least that’s something.”
Lindsay looks at the TV. She moves her hand over her mouth. “Oh, shoot.”
The crawler at the bottom of the screen reads, “BREAKING NEWS: State-wide lockdown to be strictly enforced effective immediately. Governor orders all citizens of Washington to remain indoors.”
I turn up the volume.
“...from his home, Governor Patterson has issued a lockdown for the entire state of Washington. The mandate requires all citizens to shelter in place with few exceptions: first-responders, including EMT, police, and firefighters; hospital staff; and essential city, state, and county maintenance employees. Also, a limited number of shipping and delivery staff will be allowed to work.”
“This is crazy,” Lindsay says.
The reporter continues, “Essential employees will receive documentation to enable them access to travel to and from work. All others must remain indoors. Anyone walking or driving will be stopped and questioned. Police have strict orders to arrest violators. The order follows a violent protest by the hate group FATE. Representatives of Governor Patterson declined to comment whether the mandate is in reaction to the actions from earlier today. No word yet on when the mandatory lockdown will end.”
“Well, so much for hiding our phones,” Lindsay says.
“Shoot. Maybe we’ll get lucky and McNulty and Choi will try to come here and get arrested on the way.”
Lindsay huffs. “That would be nice.”
The lockdown forces Lindsay to stay here with me. I don’t mind, but she has no clothes or personal items. I hope I have enough food for both of us. “Hey, I’m sorry you’re stuck here with me.”
Lindsay twists her lips and lifts an eyebrow. “Could be worse. I just wish I had more clothes. And a toothbrush. And my blow dryer and hairbrush. And make-up.” She slumps forward. “Ugh, this is going to suck.”
“I have an extra toothbrush, and you’re welcome to anything in my closet to wear. I hear baggy is in style these days.” I offer a cheesy grin.
She smirks. “Thanks. Got any ladies' underwear?”
It feels good to laugh.
We sit in a lull. “Want a drink? I think I have Sprite, apple juice, and orange juice.”
“Got anything a little more adult?”
More laughs. “Yeah. Beer, tequila, or vodka?”
“How about a screwdriver?”
“You got it.” I get up and make the drinks. I’m not much of a bartender, but I can handle mixing orange juice and vodka. I go back into the living room and hand Lindsay her drink.
“Thanks.” She reaches for the glass. Her fingers brush my hand.
They’re warm and moist.
8
Lindsay’s symptoms have exploded. Her temperature is one-o-four, and the rash has crept up her neck. She’s miserable, unable to move on her own without screaming like she’s being tortured. Cold bathwater gives her the only semblance of relief, and even then, she’s in agony. She doesn’t say much lately, but her eyes tell a story of misery.
When I’m not tending to Lindsay, I spend my time trying to construct a plan for her. I have no success. Utterly helpless. The virus is furious, presenting itself with an intensity I’ve never seen. I did this to her. And with the lockdown, it’s unlikely I’ll find someone for her to pass the curse on to. Guilt punches through me like needles into a pincushion.
I’ve worked through several scenarios to help her, but haven’t thought of anything realistic. If we could leave without the threat of arrest, our options would—wait, maybe that’s it.
I stride into the bathroom where Lindsay lies in the tub, fully clothed in the cool water. “What if you go out in public, get yourself arrested? Then you can find someone to touch when you’re locked up.”
Lindsay glares
at me, eyes rimmed in red. She grits her teeth. “What if I touch a cop?”
She’s right. Too much risk in touching someone innocent.
Watching her go through this is worse than experiencing it myself. If I could steal her fever, itching, and aches, I would. And as terrible as the situation already is, we have to worry about the CDC. They might have immunity from the lockdown order.
Ron called Lindsay yesterday. Apparently, the CDC has a surveillance division for disease breakouts like this. He wasn’t aware of any provision for them carrying firearms, but he said agencies like that sometimes have leeway in extreme circumstances.
I wish I could find some freaking leeway.
Lindsay sloshes in the water. She presses her hands on either side of her neck.
“Itch getting worse?”
She groans. “It feels like fire ants are having a picnic on my skin.”
I’m shocked at how fast her symptoms flared up. I fear the virus has mutated into a more aggressive version of itself. So even if we can find someone for her to infect, it might be a quick turnaround before she has to do it again. I wonder if our best chance is for both of us to go to the CDC, despite the questionable nature of their field agents. It might be the only way for either of us to feel normal again. Plus, Lindsay might be given a chance so she wouldn’t have to intentionally infect anyone and carry the burden of guilt I live with.
I leave the bathroom and grab McNulty’s card from the kitchen counter. I’d be doing Lindsay a favor, right? She doesn’t deserve to live how I have for the past two years. She deserves to have her life back.
I enter McNulty’s number, then clear it. I flick his business card. Why can’t I bring myself to call him? Lindsay’s suspicion isn’t unwarranted—I felt a negative vibe from him, too.
Damn it. I miss childhood when Mom or Dad would always have a solution and make things better. I want someone to tell me what to do.
“Chad,” Lindsay cries out.
I run into the bathroom. She looks at me with sheer dread painted on her face. “I want to die.”
“I know, it’s the worst.”
“No. I want—” She blows out a slow breath. “I want you to kill me.”
9
Grim Fever Page 5