Grim Fever

by R Scott Mather

“I can’t kill you, Lindsay.” My voice cracks.

  “It’s worse than the first time.” She rubs her temples. “So much worse. I can’t do this.”

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  Lindsay squeezes her eyelids together, her mouth curls into the shape of a rainbow. She shakes her head. “No, we won’t. And I don’t want to kill anyone. No one should suffer like this.”

  “Hang in there.” I realize that’s the most ridiculous thing to tell somebody.

  “Don’t tell me to hang in there.” She groans. “Can I have that bottle of vodka?”

  In my experience, alcohol made the rash more irritating, but I’m not about to argue with her. “You bet.”

  I fetch the bottle, remove the cap. “Oh, let me get you a—”

  Lindsay nabs the bottle from my hand, chugs straight from it. She downs a quarter of it before coming up for breath.

  “Never mind.”

  She gulps another mouthful and swallows hard. “You don’t have anything else, do you?”

  “Tequila or beer?”

  “I mean—” She winces. “Weed. Painkillers. Anything stronger.”

  I shrug. “Sorry.”

  If dispensaries aren’t essential businesses in a time like this, they should be. I never thought of trying marijuana to ease the symptoms, but it might work. The problem right now is acquiring it. The lockdown forced all the stores to shutter. I’m sure there are still dealers out there who sell to kids under twenty-one, but all the drug dealers I know from the prison are in lockup.

  Wait...all but one.

  I swipe through my phone contacts and find Nick Ansley. He wasn’t shy about selling drugs to the inmates. He mostly sells stuff he picks up from dispensaries, but after three heroin overdose deaths among the prisoners, the word was that Nick started selling harder stuff. I’ll call him to see if he has any weed and if he’d be willing to meet up.

  The phone rings three times, then:

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Nick, it’s Chad. From the prison.”

  “Oh. What’s up, man?”

  “Uh, I was calling to see if you had any—”

  A woman’s voice in the background calls for Nick.

  “Hang on,” he says.

  His wife is eight months pregnant. It might be a longshot to get him out of the house, but maybe I can pick it up at his place. What is his wife’s name? Sarah? Stacy? Samantha, that’s right.

  “Sorry, man, lady’s bugging me. So what’s up?” He sounds tipsy.

  “How’s your wife doing? Baby’s due in a few weeks, right?”

  “Uh...yeah.” Nick sighs. “Anyway, why’re you calling me?”

  “Do you have any edibles or something you’d be willing to sell?”

  He laughs. "Yeah, man. I have a ton of stuff. I didn’t think you were into it, though”

  “It’s for my...girlfriend.” I cringe, hoping she didn’t hear me.

  “All right, all right. How much do you need?”

  “Uh, five gummies?”

  “Okay. Dosage?”

  Shit. I don’t know this stuff. “Let’s start low.”

  “All right. I got some ten-milligram gummies.”

  “Sounds good.” I hope.

  “So how—” The woman in the background screams at Nick. “Fuck off, Jacky! I’m on the phone. Jesus Christ. Sorry, man. So how am I gonna get this stuff to you?”

  Jacky is definitely not his wife. But that’s not my concern.

  “Uh, I’m not sure. Lockdown puts a damper on things. Are you able to get out of the house?”

  “Hell yeah. Kinda need to get out, if you catch me.” He rasp-laughs. “How soon you need it?”

  “The sooner, the better.”

  “All right. Um, you know Graham’s Hardware Supply? The one by the hospital?”

  “No, but I can look it up.”

  “Okay. When can you get there?”

  “If it’s near the hospital, maybe thirty or forty minutes. How much will it cost?”

  “Call it a hundred even—need to factor hazard pay. Cash or Venmo, whatever’s easiest for you.”

  “Okay. You still driving that blue Jeep?”

  “Yep. I’ll see you there.”

  The call ends.

  I’m certain a hundred bucks for five gummies is quite a bit more than I’d pay at a dispensary, but I’m in a bind, and Lindsay deserves whatever peace I can provide her. Water sloshes—Lindsay is moving. When I get to the doorway, she’s standing in the tub.

  I grab the towel from the counter and hand it to her.

  “Sick of the water?”

  She nods, wiping water from her soaked yoga pants.

  “I just got off the phone with a...well, not really a friend, but an acquaintance at the prison. He’s going to sell me some edible gummies.”

  Lindsay stops drying herself and looks at me, expressionless.

  Is this a good blank stare, or a bad one?

  “Did—do you still want something more than vodka?”

  Lindsay resumes patting herself with the towel. “I don’t know.” Her voice is low and strained. “I’ve only done marijuana like, three times. Drugs scare me after seeing what my cousins have gone through.”

  “Oh. So, should I call him back?”

  She shrugs. “How are you going to get them, anyway? Do you trust this guy?”

  Not really. “Yeah.”

  Judging by the side-eye she’s casting at me, she doesn’t believe the lie.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He’s actually kind of a sleaze bag. He left his pregnant wife, sells drugs to inmates. Pretty sure he’s ripping me off for the five gummies I asked him for.”

  Lindsay braces herself on the wall and gingerly lifts one leg after another over the edge of the tub. “And you’re friends with this guy?”

  “No. Honestly, the only reason I have his number is because I picked him up for a shift once.”

  “Well, he sounds like a terrible human.”

  He is terrible. “Wait. What if we can treat you with something better than a little THC?”

  Lindsay comes out of the bathroom wearing her clothes from the protest, hair still damp. “I don’t think I can do it, Chad.” She scuffs across the floor and drops herself onto the couch.

  “You said yourself he’s a terrible human.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t mean I want him to die. And how are we going to get all the way across town without getting caught?”

  “We’ll be driving toward the hospital, right? So, if we get pulled over, we’ll just say you’re sick, and we’re on our way there. No problem.”

  Lindsay circles her palm with her finger. “I don’t know. That could work, but I still don’t feel right about infecting this Nick guy.”

  I don’t want to pressure her, but this might be the only chance we have of finding someone horrible enough to infect.

  She grimaces, leans her head back, and rubs her temples. Her skin is pale, eyes hollow. “These jeans are murder on this rash, by the way.” The words come out tired. She rubs furiously at her chest, legs, arms, and neck. “Oh my god.” She groans. “This itching. This is the worst.”

  “Let’s go.” I help her up from the couch.

  I get Lindsay into the car and send Nick a message:

  On our way.

  “Fuck.” Lindsay groans, contorting her body to find comfort. “I don’t wish this shit on anyone.” Wet handprints darken her jeans. It reminds me of a Kindergartener’s art project. “God damn this shit.” She’s sworn more in the twenty minutes we’ve been driving than the entire time I’ve known her.

  Rippling gray clouds compound the eeriness of the empty streets. The world sleeps, and we’re living a nightmare. We’re a few minutes late, and I don’t want Nick to leave if we’re not there right away. I push hard on the accelerator. We’re screwed either way if we get pulled over.

  We approach the crest of a hill.

  I glance in the rearview mirror.

  A
black car.

  Fifty yards behind us.

  “Shit.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Uh, there’s another car. Following us.”

  Lindsay maneuvers to see in the passenger-side mirror. “Shit. It’s them.”

  I’m going seventy-four, but the black car is gaining on us.

  Lindsay squeezes the sides of her head. “Ugh. I just want to die. I can’t handle it.”

  “Hold tight. We’ll figure something out.” I signal as though I’m getting onto the highway.

  The black car is only twenty feet behind us now.

  I veer left on the ramp.

  It follows.

  I pull to the right just before the road divides.

  Lindsay moans.

  The black car follows.

  Damn it.

  “How far away are we?” Lindsay asks.

  “Couple minutes. But I can’t stop with this asshole tailing us.” I glance in the mirror. We’ve put some distance between us and them. Good.

  The black car turns.

  “I think they left.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they just tur—”

  I freeze with the flash of red and blue lights behind me. A lump sinks from my throat into my gut. “Oh, shit.”

  I slowly pull alongside the curb in front of a shuttered electronics store.

  Lindsay curls into herself on the seat. Her face goes vacant.

  I gather my license, registration, and insurance card, set everything on my lap, and place my hands on the steering wheel—ten and two. In the mirror, I watch the officer approach. He looks like a taller Kevin Hart, but with receding hair and a thick mustache. He’s wearing baby purple surgical gloves and long sleeves. He stops behind my truck and speaks into the radio on his shoulder, then approaches my door. “You have a good reason to be out right now?” he asks.

  “My...girlfriend is sick. I’m taking her to the hospital.”

  The officer leans over to peek around me.

  His face twists in confusion. “Lindsay?”

  “Ron?”

  “What the hell are you doing out?” Ron’s focus toggles between Lindsay and me. “You should have called an ambulance.” He scowls at me. “You had to be going over ninety.”

  I can almost feel his glare boring holes in my face. “I’m sorry, sir. I just wanted to get her there as quickly as possible.”

  Ron looks at Lindsay. “You okay, kiddo?”

  She shakes her head.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Before she can respond, I say, “We think it’s a relapse of the Grim Fever.”

  “Son of a...okay. I’m going to escort you the rest of the way.”

  That’s not what we need right now.

  “Oh, we’re close,” I say. “You don’t need to do that.”

  His mustache stretches as he frowns. “Don’t tell me what I need to do.”

  I can’t keep arguing with him. “There was another car back there. It was behind us. Black sedan.”

  Ron scrunches his brows.

  Lindsay nods. “Yeah, it turned just before you pulled us over. That’s why Chad was driving so fast; we thought they were chasing us.”

  He looks to his right. Then back to me. “You get her there in one piece, you hear me? I don’t care if there’s no traffic, you keep it under the speed limit.”

  The tension in my chest eases. “I will. Thank you.”

  Ron leans into the window. “Lindsay, you let Kristin know what’s going on, okay?”

  “I will.” She forces a weak smile.

  “Take care, kiddo.” Ron goes back into his car.

  Lindsay grabs my wrist. Her hand feels like a microwaved fish slathered in butter. “Hurry up. I feel like I’m going to explode.”

  Ron’s tires screech as he u-turns.

  I head forward, watching his taillights shrink in the mirror. “We’ll be there in just a couple minutes.”

  Two rights and a left later, I see the storefront. A block ahead, Nick’s blue Jeep pulls into the lot behind the hardware store. I speed through the intersection. “That’s Ni—”

  The deafening impact of metal on metal jolts me.

  My skull slams into the side window, glass shards pelt my face.

  My brain whirls. I taste blood.

  Somewhere close, a car peels out, tires shriek like a banshee.

  A blue blur vaporizes before me.

  I check Lindsay. Her head is slung to the side.

  “Lindsay? You okay?” Through her shattered window, I see the roof of the black car.

  It reverses. The driver’s face appears.

  I meet eyes with McNulty.

  He sneers and opens the car door.

  I pull the handle and push, but the door doesn’t budge. I throw my shoulder into it. Nothing. It’s jammed against a short retaining wall.

  Lindsay groans. “What happened?” She’s dazed.

  “McNulty T-boned us.”

  Footsteps clunk closer to us through broken glass.

  McNulty is at Lindsay’s door, wrestling to open it. The damage from the collision compacted the metal, rendering the door useless. McNulty reaches inside the truck to release Lindsay’s seatbelt. I grab his hand, but he swipes it away and clicks the button. In a swift motion, he wraps his arms around her and pulls.

  Lindsay screams.

  I lunge for them, but my seatbelt restrains me. I unbuckle, but McNulty already has her out.

  I undo my seatbelt and scramble across the truck’s seat.

  Broken glass slices through my hands as I grab the window frame and pull myself out.

  “Stop.” McNulty aims his gun at me, squeezing Lindsay tight in his other arm

  I freeze.

  Lindsay struggles against his grasp, but she lacks the energy to put up much of a fight. Her feet slide on the asphalt. Her free arm flails limply.

  “Don’t make this difficult,” McNulty says.

  Lindsay swings her arm up and puts her hand on McNulty’s.

  Color floods back into her face, her eyes instantly full of vigor. She stomps his foot, slams a knee into his nuts, and lands an elbow to his wrist, knocking the gun free. She kicks the pistol under his car.

  McNulty grunts. “Bitch.”

  Lindsay sprints to me. Behind her, McNulty dives to the ground and scrambles for his gun.

  “We need to split up,” I say as she reaches me. “Meet at the hospital lobby.”

  Lindsay’s brows squeeze together, her eyes questioning and fearful, but she nods. “Okay.”

  “Go,” I say.

  She bolts and disappears around the building.

  I raise my hands above my head and pace toward McNulty.

  He aims his weapon at my chest. “Easy.”

  “I’m the one you want,” I say. “I infected Lindsay. Leave her alone, and I’ll go with you.”

  McNulty squints his right eye, presses his lips into a thread. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because it’s the truth. I’ve had the virus for two years. Lindsay is the only other person I know that’s survived.”

  “You’re full of shit.” He raises the gun level with my head.

  I close my eyes. This is the end. I hope Lindsay gets away.

  The gunshot provokes an involuntary jerk, and I fall to the ground.

  “Holy shit,” a voice calls out. A man, but not McNulty.

  I open my eyes.

  Feel my chest.

  There’s no blood.

  No bullet hole.

  I stand, draw my eyes to McNulty. He lies on his side, a gaping red hole in his chest. I have to look away.

  Ron stands behind McNulty’s car, gun drawn. “You okay, Chad?”

  “Yeah. I’m—”

  Pop pop pop.

  Ron collapses in a heap behind the sedan, a red mist lingers in the air.

  Dr. Choi creeps out of a small recess between the buildings. She holds a gun in one hand, pointed at me.

  Sweat drips
down my back. I piss a little.

  Choi gestures with the pistol toward the black car. “Please get in the car.”

  Her voice is soft. I’d even call it motherly in different circumstances.

  She walks around the side of the vehicle. “I don’t need you alive, but it would benefit us both if you cooperate.”

  My feet are anchored to the asphalt.

  “You said you infected Lindsay Green?”

  I nod.

  “Interesting.” She gestures again toward the car.

  I inhale and take a step. And another.

  Something will pluck me out of this awful dream, right?

  Three more steps.

  When I wake up, Leanne will be there to comfort me.

  I’m ten feet away from Choi.

  “Mr. Chaucer, we need to leave immediately. Get in the car. Now.”

  I take two steps. I’m at the front fender, directly across from her, the smashed hood of the car between us. “You’re not from the CDC, are you?”

  Choi smiles. She actually looks sweet, despite the pistol trained on me. “There is more going on here than you realize,” she says. “Standing there looking stupid will do you no favors.”

  I look behind Choi.

  She flinches but holds her gaze on me.

  I look again and yell, “Lindsay, no!”

  Choi spins.

  I jump across the hood, sliding feet first, and slam my foot into Choi’s arm.

  The gun slams to the ground, along with Choi.

  I kick the gun under my truck and kneel on Choi’s chest, pinning one of her arms.

  “Chad.” Lindsay comes running from behind my truck. She sees Ron. “Oh my gosh, Ron!” She dashes to his side, touches his neck. “He’s alive!”

  I glare at Choi. “If he dies, you’ll go away for a long time.”

  Choi is unmoved.

  A sudden thwack to my ear drops me to the ground.

  Everything sounds like I’m underwater.

  Choi wriggles free.

  “Lindsay,” I try to yell, but I’m dazed. My ear is hot to the touch, my eyes refuse to focus. Did Choi knee me? I pull myself upright using the car for support.

  Choi has vanished.

  I spin in every direction. No sight of her.

  I steady myself and wobble to Lindsay and Ron.

  “He’s bleeding a lot.” Lindsay presses on his shoulder, blood oozes between her fingers.

  I crouch and pluck the radio from his other shoulder. “Uh, hello? Officer down. Officer Ron,” I look at his name badge, “Giggs. He’s been shot.”