Grim Fever

by R Scott Mather

  The dispatcher snaps back through the speaker. “Who is this?”

  “This is Chad Chaucer. I’m with Officer Giggs. Please send an ambulance to the parking lot of Graham’s Hardware Supply, he’s bleeding badly.”

  10

  Lindsay and I enter the hospital lobby. Kristin springs from her chair and pulls Lindsay into a tight hug. The sisters detach and gaze at each other.

  “What did the doctor say?” Lindsay says.

  “He lost a ton of blood, but he’s in the clear now. One bullet got him in the shoulder. Two hit his vest.”

  Lindsay sighs. “It was so scary.” She wipes underneath her eyes. “All I could think of were you and the kids if—”

  “I know.” Kristin pulls her in for another hug and eyes me for an uncomfortable few seconds.

  I offer a sympathetic smile.

  Kristin waves me over.

  “I’m glad Ron’s going to be okay,” I say.

  Her lips tighten, and she almost smiles. She looks at Lindsay, then back at me. In a low tone, she says, “I don’t know what you two were doing out today. I don’t care, honestly. But it nearly got Ron killed.” Her voice creaks. “But, you also saved his life.” Her eyes flicker subtly before she tugs me by the elbow into their embrace.

  I slip away to use the restroom while Lindsay and Kristin chat. I pass two uniformed officers and the detectives who took our statements at the scene.

  They nod to me and continue their conversation. “Any idea where the nine-one-one call came from?” one of the uniformed officers asks.

  “No idea.”

  I wondered that myself. Nick must have called nine-one-one before he took off. Makes me regret that we were there to infect Nick. If Ron hadn’t arrived when he did, I’d be lying in a refrigerated drawer right now. I duck into the alcove for the restrooms and grab the men’s room door handle.

  “We still don’t have a confirmed ID on the deceased,” says the female detective.

  I let go of the handle and lean against the wall to eavesdrop.

  One of the officers says, “Really?”

  “Yep. The witness gave the name Alex McNulty, but so far, nothing has come up. There are no Alex McNultys at the CDC. Need to wait on dental records.”

  The male detective says, “This case has a lot of open threads. Only one witness saw the female, the one that shot Giggs. Found the gun underneath the truck, but we have nothing on the woman.”

  “This case is already giving me an ulcer,” says the female detective.

  “Why would two people impersonate CDC officials?” an officer asks.

  “You figure that out,” says the male detective, “you let me know.” He laughs, and the others join in.

  I return to the waiting area. Lindsay beams a smile at me and pats the seat next to her.

  I sit. “Where’s Kristin?”

  She gestures toward a group of uniformed officers circled around Kristin. “She’s talking to some of Ron’s work buddies.”

  “How are you doing?” I ask.

  She smiles so big that her teeth glow. “I’m good. Really good. Except, there’s one thing that’s been bothering me.”

  I cock my head. “What?”

  “You told me we needed to split up and run.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You didn’t run.”

  “No. I didn’t run.”

  “Were you planning to give yourself up to McNulty?”

  “I wasn’t planning anything. I just wanted you to get away from there.”

  Lindsay slow-blinks, bites her lower lip, and her eyes narrow. She grabs my hand and slides her fingers between mine, her skin cool and soft. “Thank you,” she says and rests her head on my shoulder.

  A culmination of repressed feelings explodes. I blink away tears and rest my head on Lindsay’s. There are too many questions to answer, infinite unknowns on the horizon. But for the first time in two years, give or take a month, I put someone else’s needs before mine.

  I’m going to hold onto this moment for however long it lasts.

  PART II

  11

  “You’re killing me, Chad.” Lindsay opens the cupboard and swings her head back. “Do you realize how selfish you sound?” She yanks a glass off the shelf and slams the cabinet door.

  So I don’t want to spend my life in prison for killing dozens of people. It’s not selfishness; it’s self-preservation.

  Lindsay fills her glass with water and chugs it. “You’ve seen the treatment work for me.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I don’t get why you wouldn’t want the same for yourself. The lockdown is over, but you’re still going to infect people. Another huge outbreak could happen again.”

  I belly up to the kitchen island opposite Lindsay. “I want the treatment. And believe me, I don’t want another outbreak. But how many times do I have to say it? If I go to the doctor, they can trace all the infections at the prison back to me.” The words come out defensively; that won’t win her over. I move my coffee mug aside and lean forward on the island. “Sorry.” I smile and reach across the counter to take her hand, but she turns around and sets her glass in the sink.

  This morning marks the sixth time we’ve argued about this in the past two months, ever since the news reported on her being the only known survivor of Grim Fever. A week after that, she started receiving a combination of antiviral medications and steroids that help lessen the frequency and intensity of her symptoms. She’s still infectious during the flare-ups, but she doesn’t feel like she’ll die every time a fever spikes or a purple rash blossoms. But she’s wrong to think I can go to the doctor and get the treatment with no problems.

  Her doctors used detectives from the Spokane Police Department to conduct contact tracing, and they tracked down every single person she came into contact with. They’d link me to the outbreak at the prison in no time. As much as I want the treatment to stop living from fever to fever, it’s unattainable for me. My past is littered with the corpses of people I infected.

  Lindsay stands at the sink, her back to me. Motionless. Silent.

  Outside, storm clouds grumble, and the raindrops against the window sound heavier.

  “Linds,” I say. “Maybe I am being selfish. But do you want me to go to prison?”

  She huffs. “Maybe you deserve to.”

  The words pierce like a bayonet. “Ouch.”

  Lindsay turns, her eyes moist with emotion. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Do what?” I ask, but I know what she means.

  She flicks her hand at me. “This. Us.”

  “No. I—”

  “I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done, Chad. I promise. But I can’t be with you anymore.”

  A chill sweeps through my chest like I’ve inhaled an arctic mist. “Wait. We can figure some—”

  “No.” She glares at me, lips tight against her teeth. “I don’t want to figure something out. We came together under weird circumstances, and we might have had a special bond because of that, but I will not put myself through the same fight over and over again with the same outcome.”

  My legs wobble. “Please.” It sounds like a question.

  “I care about you,” Lindsay says. “But we can’t...” She lets the words evaporate and shuffles out of the kitchen.

  My body is unanchored, like I’m floating aimlessly in the middle of the Pacific. I can’t lose Lindsay. She’s the only person on the planet who understands me and what I’ve gone through. The only person I trust.

  I’ve tried to convince her that the prison is still a suitable place for me to spread the illness; I have a more selective process, targeting the prisoners who have recently come into contact with outside visitors to give the illusion of external infection sources. It’s not perfect, but it’s sustainable. But our arguments have all ended the same way, with a promise to consider going to her doctor. Things go back to semi-normal for a while, only for us to fall back into the same fight a week later. Well, I have thou
ght it over, and I’m not going to the damn doctor.

  The toilet flushes. Seconds later, the bedroom door slams shut.

  I stare into the hallway. The energy of our relationship has changed. Or maybe it’s disappeared. Whatever it is, Lindsay feels it too. My feet move toward the bedroom before I make my mind up about what to do or what to say.

  Wind and rain beat against the windows and roof. Everything is a varying shade of gray. I lumber to my room, psyching myself up to knock and ask if I can come in. I listen to Lindsay’s footsteps scuff on the wood floor, back and forth between the bed and the closet. I finally muster some courage and raise my hand to knock, but she opens the door before my knuckles strike the wood. She gasps, her eyes spring wide open, and she almost falls backward. The strap of her bloated gym bag slides down her arm and knocks the plastic grocery bag in her hand to the floor, spilling her hairbrush and various toiletries.

  “You’re leaving?” I kneel to pick up her things, but she swoops down and swats my hand away.

  She collects the items and stands upright. I expect anger or sorrow, but her face is blank. No emotion. She makes eye contact for half a second, then averts her focus and shoulders her way past me.

  “Lindsay.”

  She strides to the front door.

  I follow. “Wait. Please.”

  She opens the door and pauses, her hand still on the knob. She breathes in. I expect her to turn around and say something. But she walks out into the downpour and slams the door behind her, rattling the windows.

  I stare at the doorknob, processing the finality of her exit. Hoping the door will open and she’ll come back in. She’s more or less lived with me for the past month. Are we really at the point of no return?

  I should run after her.

  Make promises.

  Hold her.

  Kiss her.

  Have the same fight with her again in a few days after the polish of reconciliation wears away.

  A few days ago, Lindsay said we keep circling around the same argument with the same predictable outcome, that we’re two opposing forces unwilling to compromise. I understand why she wants me to do the right thing—her words, not mine—but I can’t risk life in prison. I’ve seen first-hand what long-term prison sentences do to ordinary people. It demolishes them, cracks their foundation, steals any sense of morality. They’re on edge every second of every day, bracing for an attack. Not to mention I’d have a bright red target on my back, given my profession.

  I won’t chase her, despite a powerful impulse to fling the door open and stop her from leaving.

  I thought I would do anything for Lindsay, but I guess she’s right. I am selfish.

  Raindrops bounce like marbles off the roof of Lindsay’s green Subaru. She was talking on her phone when she first got in the car but ended the call and still hasn’t left. Her hands grip the wheel, eyes focused straight ahead. Every few seconds, her shoulders quake with sobs. She’s been sitting there for at least five minutes. Maybe she’s having second thoughts, or she’s waiting out the storm that’s drenching the street. Whatever the reason, I feel like a creep watching her through the window.

  I go to the kitchen and pour the last dregs from the coffee pot into my mug. Only half a cup, but it’ll do. I grab an old Stephen King novel I’d always intended to read and sit at the table. Rolling thunder drones in the distance. I open the book but can’t make sense of the words. My mind isn’t into it, my thoughts wandering to all the what-ifs with Lindsay.

  Before we met, I’d been alone for two years. I had never considered a romantic relationship with anyone since Leanne died. But Lindsay survived Grim Fever after I accidentally infected her, and together, had some extraordinary experiences. We attended an anti-government group’s rally so I could infect their leader, and we survived the terror of the two fake CDC agents who tracked Lindsay down. The events created a bond between us. We have a magnetic connection.

  Had a magnetic connection.

  Worldwide panic has dwindled with the discovery of effective treatments. SVE-1 is no longer the monster it once was, and that’s partly why I feel justified in continuing to spread it at the prison. That’s the wedge between Lindsay and me. Hell, more people die from drug overdoses than Grim Fever these days, especially on the res—

  Oh, shit.

  I’m so stupid. So caught up in my world that I never once considered Lindsay’s family on the reservation, where meth overdoses have killed dozens this year. She’s not only worried about me infecting more people; she has her family’s safety on her mind. And it never occurred to me to ask her about it, to offer her the support she needs.

  I don’t deserve her.

  My phone rings. I hope it’s Lindsay calling, even though it’s not her ringtone. I yank the cell out of my pocket. Unknown caller. Disappointment smothers me like a weighted blanket. I mute the ring, slide the phone back into my pocket but stop half-way and pull it back out. I need to tell her I’m sorry. Even if we don’t get back together, she deserves an apology at the very least. I wonder if she’s still out there. Better to do this kind of thing in person.

  I jog to the front door. A deafening crack judders the windows, then a blinding flash brightens everything outside for a fraction of a second. My heart pumps, limbs fired up with adrenaline. I suck in a deep breath and calm myself, then peek out the window.

  Lindsay’s car is still there.

  And she’s running up the walkway toward the house.

  I swing open the door.

  She stops at the welcome mat, phone clutched at her side, clothes saturated. Soggy strands of hair cling to her face. Her eyes are red, her lips pressed into a thin line.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Frank…my cousin.” She struggles to catch her breath. “He died last night. Overdose.”

  “Oh, no.” My hand involuntarily covers my mouth. “I’m so sorry. Come inside.”

  She looks past me, inside the foyer, then focuses on me with a hard gaze. “Okay.” She wipes the tears and raindrops from her face. “But only because I need to show you something.”

  “All right.” I step aside, giving her space to enter.

  She heads for the kitchen while I snatch a towel from the hall closet.

  Lindsay sits and places her phone on the table. She stares at the towel in her hands. I’ve never seen her this shaken, even in the crazy situations we’ve found ourselves in. Her eyes show sadness, but her steel-trap jaw and death-grip on the towel scream anger. She looks across the table at me, then immediately drops her gaze to her phone. She clears her throat.

  “I don’t know...” She fights back tears, her wavering voice only a notch above a whisper. She sniffles, then continues, “Monica, Frank’s sister, said someone has been delivering loads of meth straight onto the reservation. It started about four months ago.” She squeezes the towel, her knuckles pale with tension. “Frank was clean for almost a year but began using again when these deliveries started coming.”

  I nod, unsure of what to say.

  “Monica went to the police last week with a picture she took of the guys dropping off the meth. But they said without a license plate number or the identities of the men, they couldn’t do anything. I asked her to send me the picture.”

  Lindsay swipes the screen on her phone and turns it toward me.

  In the photo, two white men stand at the lowered tailgate of a red pickup truck parked amidst a cluster of pine trees. The men appear to be removing a cardboard box from the bed of the truck.

  “Tough to kick an addiction when it shows up on your doorstep,” I say.

  “Look who’s driving the truck.”

  I didn’t notice the man behind the wheel.

  Oh shit.

  I jerk my head up. “When did Monica take this picture?”

  “Eight days ago.”

  “How? That’s impossible.”

  Lindsay shrugs. “I survived.”

  I glance again at the picture and see the face of a man who shou
ld be dead. I infected Wade Linford over two months ago. And yet, here he is. Alive and well, hand-delivering the drugs that killed Lindsay’s cousin.

  12

  Rain pelts the kitchen windows, the sky almost night-dark. Thunder booms, a flashbulb sparks the sky, and the lights inside flicker.

  I’m not entirely sure why Lindsay came back, but I’m glad she did. I have to be careful not to give her reason to leave. As much as I want to talk about how the hell Wade Linford is still alive, I have to focus on her needs right now. Be supportive, like I should have been all along.

  “Were you and Frank close?” I ask.

  Lindsay dabs underneath her nose with the towel. “When we were kids. Frank, Monica, Kristin, and me would have sleepovers just about every other weekend. They’d come stay with us for a week or two every summer. Monica is a year younger than me, and Frank and Kristin are—were—the same age, so they picked on me and Monica, but it was all in fun.” A half-smile perks up in the corner of her mouth.

  Lindsay’s sister barely speaks to me, but they have a close relationship. “Does Kristin know about Frank?”

  “Yeah. She’s torn apart.” Her voice quivers.

  “I’ll make you some lavender tea.”

  Lindsay nods.

  I turn on the stove and ready the kettle. “Tell me about Frank. What was he like?”

  “He was quiet but funny in a sneaky way. He’d whisper a joke to me in the back of the car. I’d giggle like crazy, and my mom or uncle, whoever was driving, would always get mad because I was so loud. Frank knew how to get me going.”

  “He sounds like a great guy.”

  “He was a good kid. But he got in a lot of trouble in high school. Stealing, smoking weed, stuff like that. He dropped out after his sophomore year. Got into the heavy drugs shortly after that, but he cleaned up when his wife left him.”

  I set the teacup in front of Lindsay along with a bowl of raw almonds, her favorite snack.

  “Thank you.” She blows away the steam and takes a sip. “Frank wanted to be there for his kids. He has a fourteen-year-old daughter and two boys still in diapers. He got sober through a program on the reservation. He was doing so well…”