Pestilence

49

Howie woke in the dark, feeling only the intense heat. He couldn’t hear anything but his own breathing. His eyelids fluttered, and they seemed sticky, as if they had been glued shut. Reaching up over his head, he touched smooth steel. When he forced himself up, pain shot into his shoulder with such intensity, he thought he might pass out. When his fingers found the space between his neck and shoulder, he felt the roughness of bandages.

He was in a box-a metal one that was about five feet by four feet. He thought of monkeys he’d seen on television that were crated and shipped off from Africa to the zoos or labs where they were destined to spend the rest of their lives. He felt like one of those monkeys now.

He guessed the slits in the box were for air, and he pressed his face against them to look out. He was inside what appeared to be a storage facility. At least a dozen other boxes were stacked around him, along with crates overflowing with supplies. A sliver of dim, golden light was coming through from the space underneath a door.

Howie sat back, trying to control the vertigo that was making his stomach feel like Jell-O. He was so hot that his eyes felt as though they were frying, and when he closed his lids, it was worse, like putting a blanket over them.

Weakness overtook him then, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and die. Jessica was gone-probably taken back to a camp-and he could only pray that she was in a women’s camp. His girlfriend was gone; so were his house, his cars, and his family. The only family he really had was his ex-wife’s family. Her mother had been surprisingly gentle and loving with him, and Howie had grown close to her. But she passed from a heart attack at forty-nine years old. The cardiologist had told Howie that it was just one of those things they had no control over. Humans had no control over the most important things in life, really. He had felt so helpless then, so impotent. But that was nothing compared to how he felt in that box. Fate hadn’t spun his life out of control; other men had-men from his own government, no less. They were meant to protect him.

He leaned back against the side of the box and thought he would close his eyes. No more running. No more fighting. He didn’t have it in him.

He felt a warm sensation on his face. Sticky blood was coming out of his nose. He wiped at it softly but then stopped. What did it matter anyway?

He began to drift off to sleep, but laughter woke him, and he realized it was his own. He was about to die in a box. Despite all his wealth, the hundred or so employees who relied on him, the interviews with the media, and all the people who sought his advice as though he actually had something to teach… he was going to die alone in a box, like a sick dog.

He wondered where his father was now-a man in his sixties dating twenty-year-olds. Howie had an uncle somewhere, too, whom he hadn’t seen in over a decade. The last time he’d seen him, his uncle was leaving on a world cruise and had asked Howie to come with him. He’d asked him not to be confined to one city, ever. Howie wanted to go so badly that he hadn’t been able to sleep the night before his uncle was going to leave for his first stop: Florence. But he couldn’t go. One face kept appearing to him every time he made up his mind to go and abandon everything. Jessica. But she was gone, and he was alone.

When Howie woke up the temperature was hotter than he remembered it being before. Sweat rolled off him as though he were in a sauna, and his clothes were drenched. His collar was also damp with blood. He started to peel his shirt off and then stopped. Death would probably come quicker if he allowed himself to dehydrate. He had no intention of dragging this out.

And then he heard something coming from another room, possibly next door, where the light was coming from, that made his heartbeat hammer in his ears-a piercing scream. He would have recognized that voice no matter where he was.

Jessica.