Jacqueline Druga - The Flu

Thump.

Against the hollowing chest cavity of his young body, Dustin’s lungs snapped against the struggle to take a breath, echoing in a sense his own beating drum, his final dance in life. There was complete and utter silence from everyone in the room. The only noise came from Dustin. The long breaths in, the thump, the wheeze out. Slowly, with a heartbreaking and frightening pause between each one.

He was sitting nearly upright, but his head tilted to the right, his eyes on his mother. His eyes that wouldn’t close held a half focus as they partially rolled to the back of his head.

Dustin had stopped blinking. The only movements he made were involuntary, the quick rise of his chest and slight twitch of his head with his inhalations.

Dylan held his hand, her eyes staying on him, trying telepathically to relay some sort of message of hope and freedom from fear.

Chris huddled in the dark corner, knees to his chest, eyes glued to Dustin.

Mick prayed. Between his palms, pressed to his lips, was Dustin’s hand.

Nobody moved. Nobody said anything.

Another moment of quietude ensued, only it was too long, much longer than any of the other breathless hushes. Dylan’s eyes rose to meet Mick’s and as soon as they did, a sound broke the silence.

It was whimpering, a tiny whine, soft, short. Dustin’s eyes shifted, and again he made that noise. It was almost inaudible. Then after a heavy gasping wheeze, Dustin’s breathing went out of control, labored, hard. And with the most paralyzing, anguish-filled scream they’d ever heard, his mouth dropped open, his body flung forward and Dustin’s arms reached out frantically as if desperately asking for help.

“Mick!” Dylan screamed, lunging for Dustin as his body convulsed out of control.

But Mick was there already, slipping behind Dustin, wrapping his entire being around the boy to keep his body still. No amount of strength could stop the uncontrollable shaking Dustin did, and nothing, absolutely nothing, blocked out the horrendous scream.

Over and over, long, loudly and painfully, Dustin cried out.

“Dustin!” Dylan grabbed his hand, her words trembling and crying. “Dustin, baby, let go.”

Mick cradled him, holding him tighter and tighter “Shh. We’re here. Just let go, it’s all right. We love you. We’re here.” Mick wanted to bellow out at that moment; everything crumbled inside of him as he held Dustin, trying to take it from him.

His ears covered, head down, Chris cried out over the screams of his brother and the painful pleas of Mick and Dylan. “Make him stop. Help him! Help him!”

Dylan swiped hard at the tears on her face. “Maybe, if I held him, Mick. Maybe if I held him…” She sat on the bed, scooting closer, and Mick moved Dustin from his arms to hers.

The cry of his pain buried itself against his mother’s shoulder. And when his body completely met hers, chest to chest, Dylan’s arms around him, Dustin fell silent.

Mick watched it as if in slow motion. The drastic arching of Dylan’s neck as her head flung back, the veins that protruded in agony, the redness that crept from her throat to her face, they all precluded the most heart-wrenching, soul-annihilating cry Mick had ever heard.

Dustin’s still body rested, braced within the grip of Dylan’s grief. And in a painfully completed circle, against the body that gave him life, in the arms of his mother, Dustin surrendered his last breath.

October 8 th

It was the first one made, Mick made sure of it. He did it himself, a thick wooden cross, treated so it wouldn’t ruin, with Dustin’s name on it. Dustin was also buried farther from everyone else, next to Marian.

During the course of the day, Mick continued to stop at Dustin’s grave. Every breather he took, he walked over to say hello and wish with all his heart just to be able to hear Dustin one more time, make one of those statements where he defended Mick with a vengeance, then in a single breath tore it down with a simple ‘do you, Mick?’

It would be the last of the long days during which bodies were buried.

It was over. The big wave of death hit twenty-four hours after Dustin had passed away, and with as much grief that Mick held, it was a wave of distraction he needed.

The calm following the end of the flu brought a sense of anxiety to Mick. He was facing the battle Lars always spoke of, the battle to go on. But Mick was pretty certain, as hard as it would be, as difficult as it was to face, he would be able to go on. He didn’t have a choice.

Lars took a second to peer up at the amber glow of the evening sky. The manmade illumination brought on by the burning bodies, it was yet another sign of the end of the flu era. He walked into the nearly empty gymnasium. It had been weeks since he had been able to walk across the empty floor. He paused at the circle, closed his eyes and imagined that the silence was a room full of applause and cheers. Those that came from children, an abundance of enthusiasm that would be a long time coming before it occurred again in that school gym.

Relinquishing the memory of many school basketball games and pep rallies, Lars went back to what he was originally doing in that gym: Finishing up.

Henry and Kurt packed boxes with folders, sealing them with duct tape and stacking them alphabetically.

“How’s it going?” Lars asked as he approached the pair.

“Fine,” Henry answered. “Just getting things ready for future documentation. When we’ll do that, I don’t know. Perhaps someone out there will want the task.”

Kurt chuckled. “Do you honestly think you’ll let them? You were anal about keeping everything in order. You did a good job.”

“We all did,” Henry said.

“You didn’t say,” Lars stated, “are you two staying on in Lodi?”

“Absolutely,” Kurt replied. “We want to help. Tom’s been putting together a new village council to help out Chief Owens during the restructuring. Don’t know what we can do, but we volunteered our services.”

“Did I tell you…?” Henry lifted the cellular phone. “I got an answer today.”

Surprised, Lars looked at him. “Who did you call?”

“The president. As we suspected, flu’s done everywhere else,” Henry answered. “And he’s still trying to restructure, put things back together. He really is. However, he has nothing to work with. Perhaps Lodi can be a strong starting point of assistance to him.”

Kurt added, “If he didn’t think that before, the president does now. Henry here boasted of a pretty strong leadership in Chief Owens.”

Lars smiled. “I’ll back Henry up on that. I’m sure Mick will do whatever is needed of him. Since everything is finished here.”

Henry smiled with relief. “No one came in today.”

Lars let out a breath. “Yes. Which is good. I didn’t want to make last night the cut-off. I didn’t, even though we knew, if they were symptomatic, they would have been ill by last night.”

“Think it’s safe to declare this thing officially done?” Henry asked.

“Yes,” Lars replied with absolute certainty. “I think we can safely say… it’s over.”

Mick sat for a second on his motorcycle after he turned off the engine. He pulled the key from the ignition and looked up at the house. It was late, but he knew Dylan and Chris at least would be up. He needed to see them both. The day was long; he’d been out in the field and didn’t get a chance to stop by home, not even once.

Summing up enough energy to get off that bike, Mick took the path to the house. He smiled when he approached the door and Chris rushed out.