Victor Methos - Pestilence

For a single moment, Candice stopped vomiting and sobbed. “Please help me,” she cried.

Before Nancy could say anything, Candice convulsed violently and jerked onto her back on the bed. She vomited an explosive stream of blood that hit Nancy in the face. It was warm and smelled like foul steak.

Nancy panicked, turning Candice to her side again, allowing her to vomit into the bowl. But so much blood was coming that it filled the bowl and spilled onto the floor.

The door opened, and a crash team was there.

“No,” someone shouted down the hall. One of the trauma doctors, Roger, ran over to the room and looked in. “Don’t go in,” he said. “Gear up first.”

“There’s no time,” Nancy said.

She realized suddenly that the crash team was staring at her. She wondered why, until something wet dripped off her face and onto her hands. She touched her face and came away with the blackness that covered Candice. Until then, she hadn’t registered that the blood on her face was hemorrhagic blood.

“Roger…”

“Get into the shower, now.”

She walked to the bathroom in the corner of the room and washed her face and hands. She started slowly and used a little soap, and then rubbed her hands together furiously. She was using so much soap that the suds covered the sink. She scrubbed violently at her face, and after a short time the skin was raw and pink, and she was crying.

She screamed and ran out of the room. The crash team were in the supply closet where they kept the biohazard gear, and Roger yelled out to her, but she didn’t hear. She was sprinting down the hall. She had to get out of there. The hospital walls were closing in around her, her heart was racing, and she couldn’t breathe. Her chest was tight, and she worried she was having a heart attack.

The elevator took too long to arrive, so she sprinted down the stairs instead. Hysterical, she burst out onto the first floor and ran for the exit.

The sliding doors opened and another nurse, Lance Page, walked in. She tried to run past him, but ended up running into him, nearly knocking him off his feet, and their faces bumped.

“Nancy,” he said as she stood and ran out the door. “Nancy, what’s wrong?”

Lance Page felt hot. He was lying in his living room, watching television, and his eyelids were boiling. Sweat was pouring out of him, and he was shivering.

Someone knocked on his door. With great effort, he rose and answered it.

His supervisor, Michelle, was standing on the porch.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Sorry for popping in, but nobody’s phones are working. We think there’s a big outage or something.”

“It’s okay. What did you need, Michelle?”

“Hey, I know you just left, but you sure you can’t come in? It’s just that we can’t get a hold of Nancy, either, and we’re short two people. If you could come in, it would really help.”

He swallowed, and his throat was tight. “Maybe half a shift.”

“Half a shift would be an enormous help.”

“Okay. Give me fifteen.”

Lance put on his scrubs and sneakers, then headed out the door. He locked it behind him and then opened it again. He went to the fridge to get a soda and left again, heading toward Saint Anthony’s, which wasn’t more than a ten-minute walk from his house.

When he arrived, he went directly to the bathroom and used wet paper towels to mop his head, belly, and underarms. Then he clocked in and went to the nurse’s station for assignments.

The day was grinding slowly through, and Lance only lasted a few hours before he felt like it was time to go. He checked the board. A twelve-year-old boy named Max White had come to the ER with stomach pains, and his mother was worried that he’d gotten food poisoning from uncooked meat at a barbeque.

Lance went in and did his best to smile.

“How are ya guys?” he said.

“He’s started throwing up since we got here.”

Lance bent over to take the boy’s vitals, and a single drop of sweat rolled off his head and onto the boy. It struck his lips, and the boy wiped away the spatter with his arm without saying anything, but the mother said, “Excuse me, you dropped sweat on my son.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just really hot.” He moved away from him. “I’ll be right back.” Lance went out to the shift leader and said, “I have to leave. I don’t feel good at all, Michelle.”

“No prob. I think the rush has died down. Thanks for coming out. You gonna be able to make it tomorrow?”

“It’s my day off tomorrow.”

“Oh, right. Okay, have a good one then.”

“Thanks.”

After getting home, Lance slept for four hours. He hoped a nap would make him feel better, but when he woke up, the fever was worse. He tried calling his girlfriend to come and spend the night, but he was too weak to walk over to his phone. His throat still felt tight, and he was having trouble breathing. His lips and even his eyes were dry from dehydration, and he knew he had to drink something but was too faint to get anything.

With all the strength he could force out of himself, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. He got as far as the bathroom before he sat on the toilet to relieve himself, but something was wrong. He didn’t have the normal sensation of release. It felt more loose and messy. He stood and looked down. The toilet water was completely dark; red-black streaks crossed the bowl.

Max White stood in his backyard with his two brothers and his two-year-old sister. He didn’t feel well and hadn’t for four days. He was hot and sweaty, and his mother kept giving him water, juice, and ice cream, but none of it made him feel better. He’d thrown up a couple of times, but that had stopped two days ago.

“Max, let’s play,” his brother Martin said. He flung a baseball at him, but Max couldn’t lift his arm in time to catch it. It struck him on the side of the head, and he fell back and lay on the grass. He wanted to lie in bed. It had been his mother’s idea to come out to get some air and sunshine. He sat up.

“You all right?” Martin asked.

Max stood. His throat was on fire, and he took the soda Martin was holding. He drank down a few gulps before handing it back to him. “I don’t feel good.”

“Oh my gosh!” Martin screamed. “Mom!”

Rebecca White came out of the house and saw Max collapsed on the grass. Martin was standing next to him. Her eldest son and young daughter were playing on the other side of the yard.

“Martin, what’s going on? What did you do to your brother?”

Martin was trembling. As she came upon Max, she screamed.

Blood was gushing out of his eyes and nose. He opened his mouth to talk, and a torrent of blood spewed out over Martin and the lawn. Max tried to cry, but vomited instead. Rebecca scooped up her son and ran to the car to drive him to the hospital, Max spitting up onto her chest and neck as she ran.

Howie woke with a banging in his head and was sitting up before he even knew where he was. He always thought that people who’d been knocked out woke up slowly, like they did in the movies. He’d thought his vision would be blurry at first and then he would hear things and slowly come to. But that was not what happened.

He was lost in a sea of darkness and barely aware of himself, and then, out of nowhere, he was back. He jumped up so violently that he tweaked his neck. He was leaning against a chain-link fence, but the area he was in was much smaller than what he remembered. Around him were four other men and only three cots.

“You all right?” one of them said, a man in a tank top, whose arms were covered with tattoos.

“That’s the second time that’s happened today.” Howie groaned, twisting his neck. “Where am I?”