Story #211 - The Sick

The Sick

He was sick; that much was apparent from the vomit-stains he’d left in the toilet. The trouble lay in the fact that he’d never been this sick in his life, and working at the nearby hospital gave him some concern about what exactly he’d been infected with. There was no particular strain of virus he’d heard about recently that should give him pause, but the potential always existed for something deadly to become airborne. He’d seen too many movies, read too many books to be entirely placated by assurances of health and safety.

Wiping his mouth, Chenny Patterson stood and tried to force himself to ignore the chills he was feeling. It didn’t work, of course, nor could he shake the fact that something more serious was wrong than a simple flu virus. He’d always been healthy, and one quick to bounce back from injury, but this had been holding on for the better part of two weeks.

Yesterday, Doctor Cutler had sent him home; while cleaning the physician’s office he’d thrown up in the garbage can he was taking out to the dumpster, and Cutler had been concerned enough to do a preliminary exam. As pleasant as the grey-haired man’s bedside manner was, however, Chenny was fairly certain there was something more at work – a desire to ensure that patients and staff in the hospital didn’t see him at his worst.

Sickness in such a facility was commonplace, but unexplained sickness made people nervous.

Chenny had seen several specialists in the last week, all outside of the hospital and all of whom hadn’t been able to tell him anymore than that “he was sick”. After the third such appointment he had stormed out, stomach churning and his temper flaring. Oddly, he felt better angry than he had at any other moment in recent memory.

Looking out at the bright summer day beyond his drab curtains, Chenny felt that same anger begin to rise, and the sickness started to lift along with it. Stoking his fire, he grabbed at the curtains and pulled hard, yanking them to the ground with a loud crash. A purging fire seemed to sweep through his body as adrenaline coursed, and without thinking he lashed out, striking the glass pane with an open palm and shattering it easily. He drew back his hand in horror but there was no pain, only a pulsing sense of satisfaction. What the hell was going on?

A wave of weariness swept over him as he stepped away from the window, and though he could feel his legs buckling underneath him he couldn’t move quickly enough to prevent himself from toppling over. He threw his hands out in a desperate attempt to keep his face from smacking into the hardwood of his bedroom floor, but it was too late.

Chenny awoke in darkness.

Moving was easy for him, and he found he felt none of the sickness that he had for the last several weeks. Weakness was gone, along with any desire to throw up the little food left in his stomach. A glance at the clock as he stood told him it had been at least twelve hours since he’d fallen, and a cool breeze reminded him about the window he’d destroyed.

Chenny headed for the bathroom; his hand might need serious attention after his efforts at window-breaking earlier. It didn’t hurt, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t damaged.

Flicking on the light, Chenny found a blinding headache blooming behind his eyes, and he squinted hard to make out his image in the mirror. Something didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t explain what was wrong. Looking down, he saw several red streaks on his hand, but flexing it brought no pain. Closer inspection showed no open wounds and a quick inspection with his good hand revealed no sign of broken bones. He had been lucky, it seemed.

Slapping the light off, he moved back into the bedroom. He was exhausted, even after his half-day long nap, and nothing sounded so fantastic as his bed. His head was only the pillow only for a moment before light slipped away, and his next memory was of a group men standing above him, a cold table under his back. What the hell was going on?

***

“His name is –“ James flipped through the binder he held, “Chenny Patterson. Hospital janitor. We don’t know how the hell he picked it up, but it’s definitely ours. He managed to break the sickness just before it got bad enough to kill him, and then went on to break a window. We’re lucky one of our boys had a tracer out for the signals.”

Commander Lippin frowned. The Commander never been a fan of the program, and James knew he’d been looking for an excuse to shut them down for several years now – this would be his best chance.

“I warned you boys that I had misgivings about this project from the start, but you told me it would be safe, told me there was no chance that a civilian could become infected, and yet here we are.” Lippin paused. “How far along his he?”

James grimaced. “Ninety percent.”

Lippin’s hands tightened on the edge of the desk in front of him. “Ninety? You understand what this means if it gets out, don’t you, James? A government super-solider program, the things of spooks and nightmares, suddenly made real. You have to get him under control, and you have to do it now. If you can’t, I’m shutting this whole mess down and hanging you egg-heads out to dry. Get me, son?”

He nodded, but knew there was little chance of doing what Lippin was asking. An uncontrolled escalation meant Chenny was almost certainly beyond their control, and killing him might prove the only option.

An alarm sounded as he moved down the corridor toward the isolation room. Two short pulses followed by three seconds of silence meant Chenny hadn’t killed anyone, but he was up and swinging. This could be difficult.


- D