Plague

CHAPTER 47

Ralph Wilson sat on the edge of his bed and vomited into a bucket. When he was through, he lay flat on his back, in a coughing fit so violent he was afraid it would tear his esophagus.

The coughing settled after half a minute and he breathed as deeply as he could and stared at his ceiling. He reached over and rubbed his hand over the empty space next to him, the mattress still dipping where his wife used to lie. Every morning he woke up and thought of her and every morning the pain would be so deep it would feel like hot needles in his guts.

But not today. Today, he was actually glad his wife wasn’t here.

He sat up, pushing against the bed with his arms, and swung his legs over the side. His chest felt compacted and it was like he was breathing through water. He sat motionless a while, enjoying the lightheadedness that came with a brain that was starved of oxygen and slowly dying.

He knew what he needed: immediate thoracentesis to remove the fluid that was pooling inside and around his lungs, a blood transfusion, pain medication, preferably Demerol, and supplemental oxygen.

But he also knew that all these had been applied to the patients in Honolulu, and it had only delayed their pain. Perhaps it had even extended their lives by a couple of days, but no more.

He stood up and reached for the crutches he kept by his bedside and rose to his feet, his stomach spasming and causing a coughing fit that spewed blood over his carpet. When he was done, he wiped his lips and chin with the back of his arm before hobbling out of the room.

He headed down to the basement by way of the kitchen. His cell phone was on the table and he glanced at it and then stopped and turned around to retrieve it. He sat down at his table with a grunt, pain shooting through him as if rats were eating his bones and spitting them out in his veins. Every inch of his body was in agony. His eyes were on fire; his heart pounded so hard in his chest he felt it in his throat; his joints felt like they could tear with just the slightest movement. He leaned back in the chair and tried to remain as motionless as possible, but the pain didn’t recede.

He picked up his phone and dialed a number. It went to voicemail.

“Sam…I just…I don’t know what I’m calling for. I don’t know what happened. This all went so bad I can’t even remember when it was good.” He paused. “Sam, I killed someone. A young woman that was infected with the virus in Los Angeles. She was going to infect other people…I did it for the greater good. That’s our job. That’s what we signed up for.”

Ralph began to cry. He let himself float away on a wave of emotion and when he was through he noticed the message had ended and he redialed.

“I killed her, Sam. And I deserve to go to hell for it. Please let them know. Her family will have a suit against the CDC and the US government; they deserve some sort of compensation. I don’t…I don’t even know if she had children. If you talk…just tell them that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Goodbye, Dr. Bower.”

He hung up the phone and threw it on the table, getting back to his feet and hobbling down the steps to the basement. He fumbled in the dark until his hand hit a thin metal cord and he pulled it and the lightbulb flicked on. The light revealed several canisters of gasoline and lighter fluid along with stacks of matches. He tossed his crutches.

The jarring movement of pouring gasoline over the basement and the wooden beams that supported the main floor caused him to begin coughing and this time he couldn’t stop. The blood kept spewing and he noticed that his vision blurred. When he reached up and wiped his eyes his fingers came away stained a dark red.

He kept pouring as he kept coughing and bleeding. Eventually, he couldn’t see. The blood was pouring so quickly, he couldn’t wipe it away fast enough. His heart was pounding from the exercise and it was causing the blood to shoot out like a fountain. He was eventually left looking at the ceiling but he didn’t remember collapsing.

He tried to stand but found his legs weren’t responding. His head was throbbing so badly he thought that he had gone blind but realized it was just the pain, searing his vision with white hot flashes. He glanced to the matches on a metal worktable. He could no longer stand or didn’t have the will to so he just rolled over and rolled over again until he felt the metal leg of the table against his ribs. He took a moment to rest and then reached up, gripping the side of the table, and pulled himself up enough to grab a set of matches before falling back down again.

He was blind now, the blood filling his eyes and not draining. He felt the matches with his fingertips, the grainy surface of the strike pad, the smooth wood of the match. He held them a long time, inhaling the fumes of gasoline that made him feel like he could faint and fall into a deep sleep at any moment.

He struck the match, and threw it on the floor, the crackle of flames immediately filling his basement.