Fever Fever © angelique armstrong 2004 Exhaustion hammered at his temples and fatigue had turned his muscles to stone; forcing him to pull into the vacant lot. He turned off the engine and slouched in his seat, attempting to make himself comfortable. He closed his eyes and tried to resist the urge to get out of the vehicle. But the lights shining through the restaurant’s windows penetrated his scratchy lids. It called to him like a beacon in the cold stillness. With a defeated sigh, he pulled the keys out of the ignition. As he emerged from the dark, the flood of fluorescent light made him squint. The smell of egg and sausage replaced the cold air in his nostrils. A young woman stood behind the stainless steel counter, wiping it down. Her hair was pulled up tight, into a stringy ponytail, which poured out the whole in the back of her cap. She offered a closed mouth smile. "Can I take your order?" she asked, her blue eyes glinting. It was as if females could smell it on him, the death and despair. The funny part was, it seemed to attract them. "Yeah," he said, looking up at the neon-rimmed menu board above her. "I'd like four orders of Pancakes, three Big Breakfast and two large Cokes—no ice and two Egg McMuffin," he then looked at her brown plastic nametag with white engraved lettering and added, “Please Amy.” She seemed to like that, because she showed him a row of white teeth trapped behind a wire fence. He watched as Amy's fingers skated over the slick surface of her register. The price displayed itself in skinny green digits. Without asking if he wanted to stay, she reached under the counter and placed a plastic tray on the smooth surface in front of him, not bothering to place a paper liner on it. He handed her the folded bills. Skin touched skin. And the more Amy tried to stifle a smile the more he could see the train tracks in her mouth. He could almost taste her acidic breath. He never used to allow them to touch him. These days, he wasn't sure there was much point. Nothing stopped its spreading. Not washed hands. Not masks or gloves. He thought about returning home but what good would it serve now? The Genie was out of its bottle. Amy went to put his order together. Her well-padded frame didn't move fast. Then again, no one was in a hurry. He needed a break from driving. His eye felt raw in their sockets. His back ached, not to mention his numb ass. It was six in the morning, his first pit stop for the day. See, he reasoned, even now he was trying not to hurt anyone. If Amy got sick it would be an act of God. She was at the right place at the wrong time. That's all, nothing personal. "There's going to be a three minute wait for your hash browns," she said, batting lashes clotted with black Mascara. "Would you like me to bring them to you?" "Sure." He replied. She slid the tray towards him. Out of habit, he waited until she let go, before taking it. With both hands he steadied the loaded down tray and walked away, taking a seat in view of the counter. Just to help her memory. He removed the paper wrapping on his McMuffin and took a bite. In the middle of his third, an elderly man shuffled into the restaurant. For a lack of anything else to do, the young stranger's eyes appraised the old timer from head to toe. The old man’s hair was a winter's white with yellow streaks that reminded the stranger of piss in snow. He wore it combed back to hide a thinning crown. And his clothes were the fashion from two decades ago. "May I help you?" asked Amy. "Coffee," said the old man, rasping. The girl punched in the price then turned away to get his order. While she had her back to him. The old man felt around in the left pocket of his gray blazer, and pulled out a shaky fist full of coins. The change fell onto the metal counter, chiming like rain on a tin roof. Then he brought the same gnarled looking hand up to his face and let out a deep wet cough. He did this twice. Amy, returning with his coffee, winced. She put the foam cup on the counter, and quickly withdrew her hand as he reached for it. The place was empty, but the old man came over and sat one seat over from the young stranger. "Getting some grub before work?" he asked, accompanied by a slight wheezing. "Just hungry from being on the road all night," said the stranger, stabbing sliced pancake onto his disposable fork. "Must be a Lumberjack with how many pancakes containers you got there." "I like a large breakfast," returned the young stranger. A slight grin drew across his face. "Hear it's moving westward," said the old timer. The statement made the stranger freeze. A feeling of unease crept over him. "There's reports of people dropping like flies. Hospitals ain’t got enough room for all the people that are coming into emergency with it." Raising the cup, he pursed razor thin lips and attempted to take a sip. It was still too hot. Careful not to spill it, he set the coffee cup back down on the table, which was bolted into the floor. "Not since the Spanish flu, have I seen something like this; that’s way before your time though. People would feel it coming on them in the morning and be dead by evenin'. They had no immunity see?" "Aren't you worried about catching it?" It had to be ten below outside. And this old man was dressed in a cheap grew suit. "Nah, when you get as old as me. You've caught just about everything there is to catch. You don't much care anymore. Almost look forward to it. Especially when you got this," said the old man. He lifted one of his hands in front of his face. His fingers looked like twisted branches, with fingertips bending in directions they weren't supposed to. "Arthritic, had it since childhood. Used to keep me up at night crying like a schoolgirl. They gave me pills but they don't work all that good." The old man lowered his hand, his expression unreadable. He then went back to talking about the fever. "It fries your brain like an egg. Even if you could survive you ain't gonna be worth much. Brain damage," he said, tapping a crooked index finger on his temple. "Your brain gets funny on you when you get hit with too high a fever. Delirium sets in and seizures. You die if you’re lucky." He started shying up on his coffee again. Wisps of steam twisted up to the ceiling. He let out a rough cough again. "Name's George by the way." "Etienne." The stranger saw no harm in giving his name. By the time he was back on the highway, that cough of George's would be getting a whole lot worse, which reminded him. Etienne looked up at the front counter. Amy now busied herself with wiping down trays and placing them in a single pile, in between pulling at the collar of her uniform. She looked uncomfortable as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of a flushed cheek. Etienne looked down at his half eaten pancakes, a little disappointed. That's how it seemed to go. Some went quick while others hung on, fighting to the bitter end. The heat from the coffee loosened up George’s lungs and he let loose a coughing spasm that sounded like pipes being cleared of half rotted food and rancid grease. “Th—that’s a pretty heavy drawl you got. Y—you from the South ain't you?" asked George, in between breaths. "Yep.” "What part?" "Louisiana, a small town called Sweet Water. Nothing more than swampland really. Not even on the map." Telling the truth felt like breaking the surface of water to catch your breath. Besides, when was the last time he stopped long enough to talk to anyone? "Fever's down there too," said George, "It's all about immunity. Like when the Europeans first came over. They brought with them a smorgasbord of disease: colds, flu, chickenpox, and smallpox. Indians didn't know what hit 'em. No immunity ya see." "Yeah George." In Sweet Water, people caught the fever all the time, mostly children. But they got over it. Etienne caught it himself at the age of nine. Folks said it was from the Old World, that they brought it with them when they came, along with their strange foods and ways of doing things. They got too settled in their ways in Sweet Water and believed it was too dangerous to leave. They said the natives were dangerous and that, “We should all just sit tight until the rest of the ships come. Then we can deal with these natives right.” That’s when Etienne decided to escape. There was no way he was going to sit around in the middle of a swamp when there was a whole planet to discover, breathing and green. Etienne looked out the big window behind him. Through fat snowflakes, he saw a pale sliver of light over the horizon. More people entered the McDonalds. And Amy’s cheeks now looked hot and puffy. Strands of hair clung to the sides of her moist face. Etienne was certain she'd be one of those to go quick. George started coughing again. "Well I got to get goin’ George. It was nice talking with you," said Etienne, he led out his hand for the old timer to shake it. He wanted to do this for poor old George. Putting his suffering to an end only seemed proper. He was a nice enough old guy, just lonely like him, left to haunting McDonalds in order to have someone to talk to. George smiled, reached out and with twisted fingers, tried to give Etienne a sincere shake. "Take care of yourself son,” said George, "and be careful with who you hang out with. Anyone could have it you know." "Will do," said Etienne, picking up his tray. "At a boy," said George, with a wink and a nod. Etienne strolled over to the trash Ben and shoved the tray through its mouth. He then placed the empty tray on top. A man, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black tie, was giving Amy his order when her eyes rolled up into the top of her head and she collapsed to the floor. She lay there, with her face red and swollen. Sweat rolled off her brow. The white shirt guy moved away from the counter with enough force to push the woman behind him down onto the cold tiles. An olive skinned kid in the kitchen shouted, "Eric, come 'er. Amy fell!" Eric, a blur of blue, came running from the back of the restaurant to the front counter. When he saw Amy laying lifeless on the floor, he did not venture any closer. "Phone an ambulance," shouted Eric, to the kid in the kitchen. "She's got the Fever," said the man with the white shirt. His eyes were wide with panic and his chest heaved up and down. Those in line behind him tried to make a run for it. Etienne had just placed his hands on the bar to the glass door to leave, when three people charged into his back. He held on as the door swung open. The three behind him hit the wet icy ground outside. They slipped every time they tried to get to their feet. And as the three lay sprawled across the entrance, the other customers inside jumped over them to get away from the unconscious girl. Using the door for leverage, Etiene managed to get back on his feet. He let go of the bar and watched as the three, now standing, ran in different directions across the parking lot. Calmly Eteine walked across the lot to his red Chevy pickup. He climbed back into the rusted vehicle and turned the key. He stared blankly ahead, as the window wipers pushed fresh snow off the windshield. If he kept on top of his schedule, he'd be in California by Saturday, late. He could bed up in a hotel when he got there and wait until he knew what to do next. With the way things were going. There wouldn’t be any native problem by the time the other ships arrived. Then as silently as he had come, the young stranger in the red Chevy pulled out onto the main road and disappeared into the falling white, remembering that he never got his hashbrowns.
Copyright © 2004 Angelique Armstrong |