Kathy Reichs - Virals

I stretched. Rubbed my eyes. Slowly, the images faded.

Even my dreams are insane.

The digits on my clock said 11:00 a.m.

Impossible. I checked my phone. Yep. I’d slept straight through the night and most of the morning.

I took stock of my body. Worse. Much worse. All systems under attack.

Head throbbing.

Stomach churning.

Lungs congested.

It was official: I’d caught something bad.

Throwing back the covers, I slipped out of bed.

SNAP.

Light exploded inside my head. My knees buckled.

Then. What? Nothing.

No aches. No flashes. No pain.

“Whoa.”

A sudden, cloying smell nearly overwhelmed me. I looked around in confusion.

The odor was rolling in waves from my bathroom. Not a pure scent, but a cocktail of fat, lavender, mint, and rose.

Strange. I’d never noticed the noxious muddle before. I hadn’t bought any new products or changed my routine. But the reek was overpowering. Shutting the door, I vowed to scrub my bathroom top to bottom.

Later.

Now, caffeine.

I shuffled downstairs.

As I passed through the living room, another smell assaulted my nostrils. A sickly funk floated from beneath the coffee table. I shuddered, covered my nose.

Had something died? The source of the odor had to be potent for me to notice from across the room. Steeling myself, I slid the coffee table six inches left.

On the floor lay a brown piece of lettuce. I scooped it, sniffed. The smell of rot made my eyes water. My gut clenched.

Gross.

It didn’t make sense. A single lettuce leaf creating such a stink? How was that possible?

SNUP.

Sparks exploded in my brain. I wobbled, caught myself.

“Jesus!”

My nose shut down. The aroma of decay disappeared like a snuffed candle flame.

What the what?

I raised the veggie to my nose. Nothing. On impulse, I hurried upstairs. The soap-cleanser-flower bouquet was gone as well.

Perplexed, I descended again and plopped on the couch. My head was ringing anew. Closing my eyes, I let my mind drift.

SNAP.

Blast of light.

Burst of pain.

Air exploded from my lungs.

I heard a tapping sound, quiet at first, then joined by a pulsating whine, like a lawnmower kicking to life.

I turned my head left, right, trying to pinpoint the source. The racket was coming from the kitchen.

My eyeballs tingled as I stared down the hallway. Suddenly, every detail crystallized into extraordinary clarity.

I sat rock still. It was as though I were seeing the kitchen through a telephoto lens. I could read the Cheerios ingredients from twenty feet out.

The tapping and whining grew more frenzied. Then new acoustics, a sucking, dripping sound.

Eyes wide, I laser-scanned the kitchen. Zeroed in. The noises were coming from the window.

Zip!

My vision zoomed to an even higher level of sharpness. I spotted a housefly patrolling the windowsill. Dark lines crisscrossed its cellophane wings. A thousand tiny red bumps formed its eyes.

The insect was exploring with small hairy feet. Its proboscis sucked and probed. Wings vibrating, it tried to solve the riddle of the glass.

I swear my jaw actually dropped.

I can hear a fly from across the house. I can see specks of dirt clinging to its feelers.

SNUP.

My vision flickered, shrank back to normal. After the clarity of the last few moments my usual 20/20 seemed fuzzy and imprecise.

I listened. No whining or tapping.

I sprang up and hurried to the kitchen window. The fly was there, but its movements were now barely audible. Its wings and eyes just looked like wings and red spots.

Numb, I raised the sash. The insect darted free, oblivious to my confusion.

Don’t flip out. You’re clearly sick.

Smell. Sight. Sound. All out of whack.

What could possibly cause such sensory delusions?

My operating system had crashed and I didn’t know the reboot command. I decided to contact the gang. Pronto.

Coughing and perspiring, I ran upstairs and logged on to my Mac. Two icons glowed. Hi and Shelton, online.

My fingers flew over the keys: Are you guys feeling weird? I’m slammed.

Shelton replied first: Sick as a dog. Pukesville. ☹

Hi’s icon popped up: Dying. Give my things to the poor.

OhmyGod. It wasn’t just me.

I typed: Switch to iFollow. Conference mode.

I changed programs and waited. Minutes passed. Clicking back, I found two unread messages.

Shelton: Too tired. Going back to bed. Maybe later.

Hi: Stuck in the can. You don’t want to know. Bye.

Crap balls.

I closed my computer. Perhaps a shower? That seemed normal. Safe.

I didn’t make it.

Full body pins and needles. Grimace. Primal whine. Then, as before, all symptoms vanished.

I sat on my bedroom floor. Hugged my knees. Dripped sweat.

What the flip?

A tiny suspicion popped into being. Unfolded in my mind with ruthless logic, indifferent to the unease it created.

You know , it whispered. You unleashed it .

The break-in at Karsten’s lab. The parvo experiment.

Cooper.

No. Canine parvovirus can’t infect humans. The dog posed no danger to us.

Coop was the subject of a secret experiment , the suspicion hissed. Who knows what he was carrying?

Was that it? Had the virus changed? Mutated? Was Coop’s infection more sinister than I suspected?

“Stop,” I ordered myself aloud. “Quit being paranoid. The timing is coincidental.”

But I don’t believe in coincidence.

Why did we all get sick at once? Was Coop the only common factor? What were these insane reactions?

But Ben didn’t get sick. He carried Coop from the lab, had as much exposure as anyone.

Cut the dramatics. You’ve got better things to do.

From nowhere, a different thought rocked me.

Study group! I was supposed to meet Jason and Hannah at noon.

Time check. Eleven forty-five. No chance I could make it. Worse, I hadn’t done the work. The assignment had completely slipped my mind.

Not that it mattered. I was in no shape to see anyone. I had to cancel.

I composed a text, hitting hard on contrite:

Jason, So sorry, but I’ve been beaten down by the flu. In a rout. Can’t meet today. Please apologize to Hannah for me, and I’ll get my work to you on Monday. My bad for canceling late! Tory.

Send. Minutes passed. My eyes remained glued to my phone. Finally, a return message beeped in: Okay, get better. Later, J.

After crunching every possible nuance of the message, my brain punched out.

I closed my eyes and slept.

Two forty-five.

Great. Thirty minutes of wakefulness so far that day. Not my most productive Sunday.

I staggered downstairs, realized I was ravenous. No breakfast. No lunch. No surprise.

I pawed through the fridge, but had no appetite for my usual yogurt, veggies, or fruit. As though moving on their own, my hands grabbed a package of ground beef.

SNAP.

My nerves fired like jumper cables. A gong clanged in my head.

Without thinking, I ripped off the wrapper and sank my fingers into the beef. My salivary glands went wild. I scooped a red, meaty handful and stuffed my mouth.

For a moment, pure ecstasy. Then my taste buds clocked in.

“Ech!”