Cruel World(11)

After a mile twisting through the dense forest of the property, the wrought-iron gate came into view, its top spiked with wicked points, a warning to anyone who contemplated climbing over to see what was on the other side. Quinn had slowed and stopped before the twelve-foot-high spokes, gazing up at them. He moved closer and placed his chilled hands on their bases, the steel so cold he pulled his palms away, watching to see if they would stick. The paved county road lay beyond the gate. It curved into sight to the north and then continued straight south, its centerline worn to a faded suggestion. No cars passed while he stood there, gazing at the road away from the place he’d always known. On other days when vehicles had come by, he’d always turned his face away even though at the speed they traveled, no one would have been able to see his features.

When he’d returned to the house, the main level was quiet except for soft music playing in the kitchen from Graham’s iPod. He showered and dressed in clean clothes before going to his father’s bedroom. Teresa was there beside the bed, a washcloth in one hand that she passed over James’s face, wiping away the sweat that sprung up almost as soon as the cool moisture dried.

“How is he?” Quinn asked, coming closer.

“The fever’s still there, but he’s resting now. He didn’t want any food but drank some ice-water.”

“Good. You can take a break. I’ll sit with him,” Quinn said, motioning to the copy of Watership Down he held in one hand.

Teresa nodded. “Thanks, I think I’ll lie down. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Quinn sat in the chair pulled close to the side of the bed and studied his father’s face. Sweat beaded and ran down from his temples, collecting in the towel Teresa had placed over his pillow. His arms lay motionless on the light blanket draped over him, and his breath came in slow, grating wheezes. Quinn reached out and took one of his hands, starting at the temperature of his skin.

It was freezing.

James moaned in his sleep, only his eyes moving beneath his closed lids. Quinn sat back, staring across the dim space of the room to where the curtains blocked out the bright day, before opening the book and beginning to read.

~

He woke with a start as the book slid from his grasp and fell to the floor. The room was darker, the slim shaft of sunlight that cut in between the drapes from before was gone, replaced by a sullen glow that barely defined the large windows behind them.

Quinn stood and retrieved the book, marking his place before setting it on the bedside table. James hadn’t moved, his slumber punctuated by the boiler-whistle in his chest. All the ice had melted in the pitcher. He poured a glass anyway, fitting the bent straw between his father’s lips. After a moment, the older man began to drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the water clicking in his throat as it went down. When he was done, Quinn set the glass aside and ran a washcloth over his forehead. The skin was cool there, frigid to the touch, but sweat still rose continually. James coughed once, a drawn out sound that set Quinn’s skin into prickling points. It was as if there were shards of broken pottery within his father’s chest, grinding together, rearranging themselves as he slept.

When James quieted, Quinn moved across the room to the door, noting the time was after six in the evening. Teresa had appeared near four, placing a warm turkey sandwich on the table that he’d reluctantly eaten, Graham’s expertise the only thing coercing the food to his sour stomach.

He left the room, closing the door to a crack before moving down the stairs. The sound of the television drew him to the living room where he found Mallory sitting on the couch with Graham and Foster flanking her.

“We need to bring him in or call an ambulance; he isn’t any better,” Quinn said, looking at them each in turn. None of them broke eye contact with the TV, and when he glanced in its direction, he saw why.

A map of the United States dominated the screen. At least thirty states were shaded in an emergency-red. Several were gray and only a few were white. Minnesota and Wisconsin were a solid black. The reporter’s words finally broke through to him, and he braced his hand on the back of the couch.

The CDC’s label of pandemic came early this afternoon when the slow stream of patients being admitted to hospitals across the country became a flood. Thirty-five states have reported over twenty thousand cases and five of them, including California and Florida, have tallied more than a hundred thousand. The outbreak appears to have begun somewhere in the mid-west, possibly Minnesota or Wisconsin. Those two states have had over a million reported cases of H4N9, as the scientists are calling it. The Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, has been inundated with patients and has currently closed the doors for lack of room. Tents are being erected outside major hospitals in an attempt to accommodate the anticipated arrivals of the sick.