I pick up a few cups and bottles left on the patio tables. I bring them inside and toss them in the trash can.
“Thanks, Chad,” Ron says. He shuts his bedroom door. “Kristin’s in bed, but she said to tell you goodnight.”
“Please give her my best.”
“I will. And please, don’t be a stranger. If you ever want to talk, have dinner, or grab a beer...we’ll always be here.”
“I appreciate that, Ron.” I can’t imagine hanging out with Kristin and Ron without Lindsay. They’re good people, but that would be too awkward.
He comes over and reaches his hand out. I flinch and jerk my hand back—old habits and all that. Quickly, I smile and shake his hand.
“Hey, I realize it won’t change how you’re going through right now, but in the eyes of the department, you’re a hero for taking out Wade Linford.”
I muster a ‘thank you’ even though I don’t feel like a hero. No, I’m a selfish villain who’s killed people just so he can maintain his lonely existence.
I nod to Ron and walk out front toward the street where a few cars remain parked. Three people stand at the tailgate of a pickup, making plans for the rest of their evening. Beyond them, a couple is making out next to the red sedan parked behind me. I get in my truck and start the engine. I don’t want to go home. And no way in hell do I want to go to Lonely Lou’s with the funeral crowd. So, I shift into gear and head to the place that’s been circling in my mind.
On the drive, my thoughts flitter between Lindsay, the woman from the pharmaceutical company who knows all about me, and Grim Fever. I shouldn’t have symptoms again for another two or three weeks. When I do, I have an inmate in mind. And thinking of Ada, I wonder what resources she has to track me down or if Choi’s the one who did the legwork.
My phone rings and drags me from my thought tunnel. Unknown number. Of course. My first instinct is to ignore it, but my thumb disagrees with me and taps the green icon.
“I told you, I’m not going to Pittsburgh.”
“Sorry! I’m just calling to ask if you’re still in contact with Lindsay Green. She’s not answering my calls.”
Nothing about this is funny, but I let a small laugh escape. I pull into the parking lot of the Starbucks, where I first met Lindsay. “I just left her funeral.”
“Uh,” Ada says, though it sounds more like a choked gurgle than a word. “I’m…sorry. I wasn’t aware she passed.”
“Murdered.” I don’t mask my anger-ridden grief. “By a drug dealer. Who was also a Grim Fever survivor.”
“What? Oh, my gosh. How…”
“How what?”
“How are there three survivors?”
“You’re the scientist; you tell me.”
Ada doesn’t respond. She clacks on a keyboard, humming an unrecognizable tune. I’m about to hang up, but she clears her throat. “You infected Lindsay…”
I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question.
“Yes.” I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with this.
“Did you infect the other person? The drug dealer?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” More typing. More humming.
It takes all I have to maintain composure. I want to scream into the phone. Instead, I inhale and say, “Look, I wish I could help you, but I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait, please. Have you infected anyone else? After those two?”
“No.” Technically, I infected Wade’s henchman, Dwight, but he was already bleeding out, so I don’t think it’s necessary to include him.
“Okay. Oh my gosh, this might be the breakthrough we need.” Her words ooze with giddiness. “Is there any chance I can convince you to come to my lab? The virus is mutating, and I need to compare my baseline with the virus in your system.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about finding the reason Wade, Lindsay, and I survived. But going to Pittsburgh? Where my life with Leanne started and ended? I don’t know if I can bring myself back there.
“Chad? You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”
“No.”
I end the call and blow out a heavy breath. I can’t go back there. Too many memories, too many ghosts.
A white-haired man in a navy jacket walks through the empty parking lot toward the Starbucks entrance. He’s wearing yellow rubber gloves—the kind used for cleaning rather than the medical-type gloves most people wear in public these days. I remember when I first came to this Starbucks, looking for someone to infect. No one knew at the time to wear gloves.
I thought coming here might help me. With what, I don’t know. But going inside doesn’t feel right.
I put my truck into gear and aim for the exit.
23
The examination table paper crinkles with every movement. I tilt to one side and try to straighten it, but there’s no use. I’ve never understood the point of this stuff. It either bunches or sticks to you, exposing the padded table anyway. A quick double-knock on the door catches my attention. A half-second later, a woman in a full hazmat suit enters.
“Mr. Chaucer,” she says, her voice muffled by the plastic screen of her PPE. “I’m Doctor Reed.”
“Hello.”
“So, you have SVE-1 symptoms?”
“Yes.”
She writes with a stylus pen on a tablet computer. “Are you experiencing any symptoms right now?”
How much info do I give her to treat me without her discovering I’ve been carrying this curse for two years? “No, I’m not.”
“Can you describe your symptoms?”
“Yeah. Uh, sweaty palms, painful rash, and fever. Sometimes my body aches.”
“Huh.” She scribbles something on the tablet. “It says here you first noticed the symptoms two weeks ago?” She looks at me with pinched eyebrows.
“That’s correct.” That’s a lie.
She glares into my eyes, expressionless. She nods once, then writes on her tablet. “Have you made skin-to-skin contact with anyone in that time?”
“No. I wear gloves any time I’m in public.”
“Good.” Her eyes move to my baby blue gloves. “Do you know how you became infected?”
“I think from my girlfriend.” I feel a chunk of flesh gouged out of the pit of my stomach with every lie.
“Did she receive treatment?”
“Yes. She recommended you.”
Doctor Reed looks at me for a few seconds, then makes a note. “I’m required to mention that we will log your information in a national database. It’s not a big deal; it’s just something we’re required to do for all SVE-1 patients.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
“Why’d you wait so long to come in?” she asks, the clinical tone of her voice gone and replaced by angry disappointment.
“I don’t know. The itching and stuff wasn’t bad, so I didn’t think it was as serious.”
“It’s very serious, Mr. Chaucer. This is the most contagious virus ever. You may have infected other people.”
If only she knew.
“I’ll write you a prescription. You need to avoid going out in public if you have sweaty hands, a fever, or if a rash develops.”
“Okay.”
“The nurse will go over the medications.” She leaves without another word.
Guilt bubbles in my gut.
Five minutes later, a nurse comes in with my medicine in a bag. She only wears a facemask and surgical gloves. “Use the cream for your hands and anywhere you have a rash. Results should be immediate, and it will help prevent contaminating any surfaces you touch. You should still always wear gloves.” She sets the bag next to me and takes two steps back. “Take the pill at the first sign of symptoms. It should help with the fever.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Questions?”
“I don’t need to take a test?”
“We’re not testing for it anymore. We just as
sume anyone who thinks they have it has it.”
“Oh.”
“Any more questions?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Okay.” She leaves, and it seems like I’ve disappointed the doctor and the nurse. But I know it would make Lindsay happy that I went through with it.
The officer’s locker room at the prison is steamy and smells of soap and sweat dueling for odor supremacy. I put my duffel bag on the bench and sit. Footsteps approach from my right, and I cringe. Dalton—who was Nick’s best friend—uses the locker next to me. He has done nothing but stare daggers at me since his buddy’s death. He blames me for Nick’s death despite the police report explaining in detail how Wade killed him. Never mind that Nick would’ve left me for dead. Facts don’t seem to matter to Dalton.
“Your bag’s in my way,” he grumbles.
I swallow the words threatening to escape my lips and place it on the other side of me. I take off my shoes, change my socks, stand up, and take off my shirt.
“Whoa, Chaucer, what happened to you?” It’s Miller, one of the few I like.
“What do you mean?”
“That bruise on your back. Looks nasty, man. How’d you get that?”
I haven’t fallen. No bruises I’m aware of. I peek over my shoulder but can’t see anything.
“Here.” Miller hands me his shaving mirror.
Between my shoulder blade and spine, I see the start of a deep purple rash, about three inches in diameter.
No. It’s too soon for this. I should have two weeks at the very least.
Shit.
I sense Dalton’s eyes burning holes into my flesh. “Oh,” I say, faking a laugh. “I was moving some boxes in my closet and backed into a shelf. Didn’t realize it left a bruise.” I hand Miller the mirror.
“Where are you starting today?” he asks.
“Yard. You?”
“Cafeteria. What about you, Dalton?”
Dalton makes a sighing grunt sound. “Yard.”
Fantastic.
I finish dressing and slide my hands into a pair of baby blue gloves, then report to yard duty.
“Enjoy the fresh air, boys,” Miller says as I follow Dalton out.
Dalton circles the perimeter of the yard. Every time I glance at him, he’s scowling at me the same way he scowls at the inmates. A fiery itch pulsates under my shirt. It’s spreading, inching its way across my back, and my hands are sopping wet inside the rubber gloves. Not ideal, but at least I can test out the medicine. This unrelenting itch is driving me insane, so I need to take care of it, or I’ll explode.
I make my way to Dalton, cool and casual...I think. “Hey, Dalton, can you cover for two minutes? I had a bad burrito, and it’s working its way through me.”
Dalton’s eyelids lower half-way. “Seriously?”
“Sorry, man. I’ll make it up to you.”
He shrugs. “Whatever. Just don’t take all day.”
“Thanks.” I head back to my locker, glad I left the medicine in my duffel bag. The locker room is empty. I dry-swallow the pill and spread the cream on my back. The nurse said there would be instant relief, but it still itches. I apply more ointment to my back and hands. The itchiness is as bad as ever.
“Damn it.”
Time for Plan B. I’ve already pegged my next target: a toothless serial rapist named Jared McConnell who has been stomping around like he owns the place. I like to have a plan in place before I set out to infect an inmate, to time it right after a visit with family or their lawyer, but time is short, and a deserving prick is in my sights.
Back into the yard, I nod at Dalton. He glares at me and turns away. The scorching rash climbs up my neck. I rub my skin against my collar, but it’s useless. I have to act now.
Jared McConnell sits at a picnic bench playing checkers surrounded by four of his cohorts. A black swastika tattoo on the back of his shaved head stands out in any crowd. He’s brash, always demanding to be center stage. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll need some extra attention.
“Eat shit, pussy,” he yells at his opponent. “King me!”
The man across from him, Jones, flips the board. “Man, fuck you.”
McConnell slams his palms on the table and bolts upright. “You wanna go, bitch?”
I might not be waiting too long.
Jones stands up. A mob swells, and a staticky voice over the radio calls for backup in the yard.
It’s go time.
I run to the table, sliding up the glove on my right hand to expose my clammy palm, eager to grab Jared McConnell’s tattooed arm. Bodies pile in, the inmates jockeying for position to witness the fight. Out of nowhere, Dalton slams Jones on the back with his baton. Jones falls to the ground, and McConnell jumps in and starts kicking him. Dalton yanks inmates off the pile and tosses them left and right, landing blows with his baton on whoever comes near him.
I shoulder my way through the crowd. Two steps away from McConnell. I reach for him, but someone pushes me from behind. I crash to the ground. To my right, Dalton is beating Jones while McConnell is standing over him, kicking Jones in rhythm with Dalton’s baton. Someone kicks me in the ribs. A fist or a foot finds the back of my head, a throbbing knot forming immediately. I get to my knees, trying to stand against the wave of the testosterone-fueled crowd. An inmate smashes into me, sending me flailing onto my back. Another inmate lands on top of me, pinning me to the ground.
Fists meet flesh, batons meet bone. Screams, groans, curses. Scuffling. Shouts from officers and prisoners. I can’t breathe with the weight of this man on my chest. A body collapses next to me. Jones, bloodied and battered, lies motionless on the ground, inches from my face. I can’t see McConnell. Something smashes into my temple, and my vision flashes white for a second. Everything is a blur now. A hollow ringing in my ear muffles the noises of the brawl.
The man isn’t crushing my chest anymore. I don’t know how or when he got up. I can breathe. A hand grabs mine and pulls me up.
“You okay, Chaucer?” It’s Miller.
I shake my head, trying to regain composure. I stretch my eyelids wide, but my vision is still off. “Got kicked.” My voice comes out muffled. Am I slurring?
“I know, come on.” Miller guides me into the hallway. My head feels like the inside of a church bell, and my legs wobble under my weight. We make it to the infirmary, and they lay me on a bed. It feels like the padded table in the doctor’s office but without crinkly paper.
“Dude, you got swallowed up by the mod,” Miller says. “And what the hell got into Dalton?”
“I don’t know.” I try to recall what happened, but every thought is a medicine ball smashing into the inside of my skull.
A nurse comes in and tends to me. I only catch half the things she says. Everything looks like I’m on the teacup ride at Disneyland. Miller leaves at some point.
I close my eyes. The nurse is talking, tells me to sit up. I do as she commands and put my hands in my lap. They were sweaty earlier today, but they’re fine now. I remember I had a rash, but I’m not itchy. My head hurts. Was I wearing gloves? Yes, I put them on after I put on the—
Oh shit. Where are my gloves? Who did I touch? The nurse? Miller?
Panic sears through me like a fiery arrow. I infected someone, and I have no idea who. I can only hope it was an inmate. Or Dalton, because fuck that guy. If it was Miller or the nurse, I’ll never forgive myself.
24
Yesterday’s incident at the prison has my head spinning. I suppose getting kicked is the primary reason for that, but I’m lost and need to ground myself. This morning, I woke up and got in my truck for an aimless drive to clear my head, trying to remember the first person I touched with my exposed hands. The poor bastard I infected. It’s bad enough knowing you’ve sentenced someone to death, even the worst of human trash, but not knowing? This is a new breed of guilt.
I’ve driven for two hours, and now I find myself at Starbucks again. Lindsay’s Starbucks. I slide out of
my truck, and an emotional weight draws me to the ground. Memories and thoughts collide, and part of me wants to get back in and drive until the tank is empty. Instead, I stride to the door. To my right, the white-haired man in yellow gloves from the other day shuffles towards the entrance.
I hold the door for him.
“Thank you,” he says. He stops and looks me in the eye. “You remind me of my grandson, Daniel.”
I remember this guy; he was here the day I met Lindsay. He told me then that I looked like his grandson. “Well, you’re too young to be my grandfather,” I say.
He grins and walks inside.
“What are you drinking today, sir?” I ask him.
“Oh, I just get the regular hot coffee. Those fancy drinks are too sweet for me.” He stares off into the void, and his face turns downward. “My wife loved the Frappuccinos, though. Caramel was her favorite, but she always got the peppermint one during the holiday season.”
“Can I buy your drink?” I ask.
He snaps back into the present. “Oh, no. You don’t have to—”
I feel an overwhelming urge for kindness. I attribute it to Lindsay’s influence on me. “Please. I insist.”
“Well, if you insist.”
I order our drinks, and we sit. He takes the chair Lindsay sat in the first time I saw her. The seat beside him is open, so I sit.
“I’m Clarence, by the way,” he says. “I’d shake your hand, but…”
“Oh, I understand. Chad. Nice to meet you, Clarence.”
The blenders whir, and the milk steamer whooshes. The scents of roasted coffee beans and various sweeteners fill the air.
“What do you do for work, Chad?” Clarence asks.
“I’m a correctional officer at the prison.”
“Oh, that’s quite a job, I imagine.”
“It’s never dull.”
Clarence smiles.
“What about you?” I ask. “What did you do to pay the bills?”
“I taught math at the university. Forty-one years. Retired for a little over twenty. Hard to believe.”
“It’s incredible you stayed there for so long.”
“It’s where I met my wife, Doris. We both worked there, both enjoyed it, so we saw no reason to leave.” His face goes long again, his eyes lost in memory.
Grim Fever Page 14