Diary of a Quarantine

      I’ve tried to convince myself I wasn’t sick until now. Doubled over in a cramped motel bathroom vomiting black tar, I’m forced to reluctantly accept the bleak reality of it. The first thought that crashes through my mind was how I will only be remembered as one more person added up to Black Flu’s body count. Whoopie.
         I half expect Mom to bang down the flimsy door, hysterically asking if I’m alright. But she doesn’t. She’s out cold on one of the filthy double beds in our room, no doubt wrapped tight in Jon’s only clean blanket that hasn’t been confiscated and burned. That’s fine. I don't want her to freak out anyway. Better for her not to know.
         So it’s just me, a toilet bowl near overflowing with dirty water and black sludge, and the nauseating buzz of the fluorescent lighting.
         Another hard twist in my gut. More of the too viscous sludge oozes out of my mouth.  It taste like vinegar, burnt coffee ground, and a tinge of rancid meat.
What am I supposed to do? In my feverish brain I can only think of three solutions. One, go the way that Jon did.

         Jon is-well, was, my older brother. He was twenty two when he got sick, I was only eleven. One morning I woke up, followed my usual routine of getting dressed then hobbling downstairs for breakfast. When I reached the kitchen, I found a hastily written letter in place of my usual hastily dresses brother on the table. Like all groggy kids, I didn't think much of it at first.
         I picked it up and read it.
                   “Found out I’m infected. Went to the med. base in camp
                   for quarantine and a cure. Will be back soon. I’m sorry.”
                                                                     - Love Jonathan.
         I only read it once. Then ran it up to my parents’ room in a fit. I didn't understand what it meant. I didn't want to.
         Mom started crying when she read the letter. She read through it six time, each time hoping she missed some other clue or hint of when Jon would be back. Dad read it once, then laid back down away from us and stared silently at the wall.
         For two weeks, Mom kept up hope that Jon would come back. That he would waltz through the front door rosy-cheeked and cheery, with two suitcases on either side of him like he just got back from vacation. For two weeks, Dad barely moved from his deteriorating lazy boy chair in front of the TV in the living room. I carried his lunch and dinner to him everyday, then took the empty dishes back to the kitchen. For two weeks, I hid upstairs in my room while Mom screamed at Dad. Only to be answered with noncommittal muttering.
         Two weeks and one day after Jon’s letter appeared, there was a knock at the door. I answered it. A tired looking soldier in his faded uniform stood on our front stoop with a grim expression and an overstuffed manilla folder.
         He asked me if this was the residence of Jonathan King.
         I nodded.
         The soldier pulled out a thin stack of papers paper clipped together from his folder. He asked if Mrs. or Mr King were available.
         I said no.
         He gave me the packet and uttered a few words of formal, government sympathy before marching off.
         Jon was dead. His body burnt in a mass corpse bonfire and dumped into a pit with the remnants of other victims.
He tried though. I suppose that’s all that mattered.
         


         My reflection swims before my eyes. I felt empty, used up. My hands grip the rim of the sink and the edge toilet lid. I wretch, bringing up bile and small streaks of the black goo.
         My knees buckle out beneath me. My head droops to my right shoulder, and lays limp against my arm. I hear Mom stirring outside my makeshift quarantine. Hopefully she’ll stay asleep, just for a little longer.
         Groaning, I haul myself up from my sorry state and gingerly sit down on the slippery ledge of the cheap bathtub.
         I have to focus on getting my self away from Mom. Keep her safe. Keep her clean.
         I choke on black bile in my throat. By now it’s making it’s way into my lungs. Growing, a virus that acts like a fungus. Eating and growing. Killing living tissue and mixing with mucus and bodily fluids to make its signature biotar.
         I cough and splutter. Black gunk flies from my mouth and speckles the floor.
         There isn't a quarantine center anywhere near this dumpy place in the middle of North Dakota. The closest is hundreds of  miles away in Rapid City.
         We still have Dad’s gun though. That’s my second plan out.



         Two years after Jon...left, My dad got sick. Dad was a good man, soft. Whenever there was any punishment to dish out he always left it to Mom, then he would sneak me ice cream or pizza when she wasn’t looking. Dad believed in second chances and trusting people up until they gave you a reason to distrust them. He had his problems, issues with Mom, spending habits, stuff like that, but he always tried to shield me from all that.
         I remember, during the beginning of Black Flu’s reign, I used to sit on the floor by dad lazy boy and watch tv with him. He was always quiet, maybe taking the occasional swig from a can of beer. Together we watched the increasing panic and disease that gripped the world, witnessing how it move from isolated cases to epidemic to pandemic.
         When things first started to really go south Dad would send me out of the room, he’d tell me to “Go play a game” or “Go listen to something”. He tried to keep me from hearing and seeing the words “No cure” and “highly contagious”. Shield me from the images of the piles of corpses, the looting, and the mass suicides.
         It didn't take long for The Black Flu to assert itself in our  lives. First Jon died. Then Mom started driving me everywhere, even keeping me home from school. Finally, we started drinking government issued bottled water.
         But through all of it, Dad didn't believe anything would help. He proved himself right when he got infected. Though he never told us.
         One night I was watching the news with him. He mumbled something about if there was anything I wanted to watch.
         I said yes.
         We wound up watching nearly six hours of bad movies. Stupid B sci-fi movies. Stupid rom coms. Even a stupid 1980’s action flick. We watched them back to back, only stopping to get some snacks from the kitchen.
         Around midnight Dad turned off the tv.
         He motioned for me to sit on his lap. Something I hadn't done since I was eight.
         He hugged me. Tight. He didn't say anything, but rocked me a little. Back and Forth. Humming some old lullaby he used to sing when I was little.
         As any typical thirteen year old, I was confused over the sudden tender parental affection. I was used to arguing with my parents. Trying to convince them that I was always right by spewing out some half thought out philosophical bullshit.
         Then he started crying. Bawling. He told me he loved me. So much. That I was the best child he could have ever asked for. That he was proud of me.
         He kissed the top of my head and rubbed my back.
         Then he told me to go to bed.
         “Good night, sleep tight.”
         So I did.
         I didn’t hear the shot. No one found him until morning.
         I woke up the next day to Mom screaming at the top of her lungs..
         The living room is a mess. What was left of Dad was slumped against his favorite chair. Bits of him were smeared on the wall and soaked the back rest. There was the black tar dripping from the remnants of his lips. Some had already dried into its ugly greenish-black on his chin and chest.
         There was a photo of us in his breast pocket. All of us. Me, Mom, Jon, and Dad. Smiling and clinging to each other.
         There wasn’t a note.



         I’m caught up in a coughing fit. It’s becoming difficult to stand straight. Tremors shake my body mercilessly. I grip the edge of the sink and ease myself up.
         Vertigo rips the floor out from under me. I stumble, and hold on the mirror for dear life.
         I lay my face against the grimy glass of the mirror. Its coolness is a breath of fresh air to my fever racked body.
         Cautiously, I steal a glance at the door knob.
         Words cannot describe how badly I want to follow my third option.
         Just clean myself up, open the door, and crawl into bed like nothing happened. Have life go on as normal until-until-until...
         Until what? I’m cured? Until I’m magically not sick anymore? Or until I accidentally infect Mom and am forced to watch her suffer with me until our deaths?
         Is that what I want?
         Tears start rolling down my face. I screw my eyes shut, but I can still feel their heat seep through my eyelids. My chest clenches. Snot runs down my nose.
         No. That is not what I want.
         I love my mom. I don’t want her to die. Not now. Not like this. Not like me.
         Reality settles in my stomach and chills me. Despite the relative warmth of the room, I shiver.
         I’m going to die. And there’s no way around it.
         The words echo around my skull. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. Each time louder and louder still.
         Stop!
         I open my eyes and pull away from the mirror, leaving a clammy print. Slowly, I take a deep breath. In, and out. In, and out, In, and out. I shut my eyes and empty my mind of the words and the paralyzing fear.
         Yes, I’m going to die. And there’s no way around it.
         A calm washes over me. Covering me from the crown of my head to my quaky toes. The tremors stop and I wipe away the wet trails on my cheeks.
         When we left a few days after Dad died, we took his gun. Mom thought we would need it. While we’ve only needed to wave it about to scare away thieves and the desperate looking for food, we haven’t had to use it, yet. I’m not sure if it still fires. It should.
         There’s nothing around here for mile except a small desolate town and an abandoned mill. No one goes in to the mill. They say it’s too dangerous, a rotting hazard zone. Completely uninhabited.
         My mind’s made up. There isn't another way around it.
         I sigh and accept the path before me. Que sera, sera.
         I open the door and step out of my quarantine. There isn't any pomp and circumstance. No hazmat team or grieving crowd. Just my mom, fast asleep, wrapped tight in Jon’s blanket.
         I tiptoe softly to the open closet by the door. Our luggage is crammed helter skelter inside. We don’t have much. just a few small bags and one suitcase. Dad’s gun is hidden deep under our toiletries and emergency medical supplies.There’s a finality in holding it. Like sealing an envelope with wax.
         I gather up all of my clothes and personal belongings. I need to get rid of them, destroy them.
         Before I leave with my over stuffed pack, I spy a motel notepad and pen on the miniature table. I drop my pack and pick them up.. That’s what people do, right? Leave a note.
         I take the pen with me and swing up my pack over my shoulder. The front door isn't locked. A break from my mother’s paranoid habit of locking every door we come across.
         I open the door and let myself out, making sure to close it gently behind me.
         What was my note you ask? Was it an apology? A plea for forgiveness? A heartfelt ‘I love you Mom’?
         It was my father’s last words. And the last thing Jon said to me. And the last thing Mom mumbled before she fell asleep.
         “Good night, sleep tight.”