“Patient Zero” (A COVID tale)

Hi Friends,

In Feb, 2020, a student in New Zealand accused me of infecting her with COVID. Roiling with guilt at 3am, I wrote this story. Thrilled that it found a home in the League of Utah Writers anthology. Here's a link to buy it at King’s English Bookstore.

p.s. I tested negative.

League of Utah Writers Anthology

Patient Zero

“Have you landed??? Did you get the tickets? Can’t wait! XXX”

Kisses in caps. Yum.

Melissa’s text perked him up during the forced march through endless airport corridors. He grinned and stopped to reply.

No, better keep the girl waiting . . . build the suspense.

He did have the concert tickets and they’d cost him two week’s pay. He figured Melissa was worth it.

The babe is hot.

 Lost in scintillative fantasies, he almost missed the sign for screening. His shoes squeaked on the tile as he made a sharp right turn to grab the mandatory form. 

He ticked all the right boxes. 

No fever.

No cough.

No fatigue—well, some, but that was to be expected after a long flight.

Just check no and sign the bloody thing.

“I feel fine.” His voice echoed in the plexiglass cubicle. “Glad to be home. Hey, I just want to crash, mate.” He gave what he thought was a charming grin, but the masked technician just rammed a long Q-tip up his nose.

“You’ll have the result in 48 hours. Meanwhile, you are required to self-isolate.” 

“Yes, sir.” No way that’s going to happen, bud. I’ve got a date with Melissa.

~ ~ ~ 

Self-isolate. Decades later, the words still echo in his ears. He puts the kettle on for morning tea and wonders whether the neighbor will bring by one of her nice scones. She might pat him on the arm and tell him he’s not such a bad sort.

Anyway, it’s peaceful on a Sunday, no threatening phone calls, no sound but the click click click of the clock and occasional swish of a car racing through puddles on High Street. 

He drifts outside to fetch the paper and stops in his tracks on the way back. Red letters scrawl across the front wall of his house.

Damn.

He grabs the bucket and sets to work, knuckles still cracked from last time. Rain pelts his bare head and dribbles down his neck. He works himself into a stinky sweat scrubbing the defaced wall.

Red paint. Always hard to get out.

His hands ache from scrubbing, and now there’s a blood-red stain beneath his kitchen window. He can still make out the faint letters: K I L L E

It’s the truth, ain’t it? Can’t erase what I am.

He glares at a boy riding by on a bike, sure it’s the one who defaced his wall. 

Youngster wasn’t even alivethen. Forty bloody years and they never forget

~

He puts on his hat, picks up his cane, and leaves for the market. 

“Just the flowers?” the checker asks, hers the only human voice he’ll hear today. 

I’m self-isolating. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Just the flowers, thanks.”

He stops at a bench, pulls some twine from his pocket, and assembles the bright peonies into small bouquets, thirteen of them plus one for the neighbor lady. He tosses a flower with a broken stem into the gutter.

The cemetery gate groans open at a nudge from his hand. Hairs rise on the back of his arm and he knows she’s there. 

Yes.

There she is, dancing to music only she can hear. A thick fog blurs her edges, but he sees her in his mind’s eye—glinting blue eyes, curly black strands clinging to her sweaty face, left breast peeking out from that low-cut dress.  

Ah, those breasts.

He holds out a bouquet, but she skims away. Her gauzy skirt twists in an ethereal breeze while her high heels click click click with each step on thin air. 

Always marking time, that girl.

An icy finger threads a path down his spine and her hand nestles on his rump like a cat. 

“It’s too late,” she whispers, and a cloud of Scotch engulfs his head. 

He turns, but she hides behind a tree. “Too late for what, Melissa?” 

“Too late for everything. Your time’s up, mate.” She licks his ear and he shivers. “Time to pay for your sins.”  

“But, I didn’t know I was infected.” 

Her laugh whistles through the trees and she disappears. 

 He gives a nervous chuckle and pats his aching chest.

She’s just messing with me.

Patient Zero sighs and weaves through the graveyard placing fresh bouquets on thirteen scattered graves, all of them his.