October Flash Fiction -- Patient Zero in Flash Friday

“Timmy, sit down and eat your cereal,” Joan said sternly. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“But mom, he likes it,” the eight year old protested. The dog got into play position and barked. Timmy laughed and stomped his feet in the dog’s direction. The dog darted under the kitchen table.

“Timothy Jacob, sit down now!”

Joan did not like to yell at the kids, but she was in no mood for bullshit this morning.

“Mom,” Joan’s eleven year old daughter yelled as she crossed from the dining room to the kitchen. “Mom, where’s my bookbag? I can’t find it.”

“I’m your mother, not your personal assistant,” Joan said with an edge of impatience. “Your bookbag is wherever you dropped it last night.”

“God, mom, I was just asking,” Amber replied. “You don’t have to be such a grouch.”

Amber turned on her heels and nearly walked into her father.

“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” Peter said as he patted his daughter on the head.

“The hair, dad,” Amber said as she stormed off to find her bookbag.

“I’m just going to grab a cup of coffee and go, dear,” Peter said. “Joan? Are you OK?”

Joan slammed the milk onto the table in front of Timmy. She leaned against the sink as if she had finally resigned herself to her fate.

“I have such a headache this morning,” Joan said. “I thought those zinc lozenges would help, but I just can’t shake this cold.” Joan rubbed her hand over her face.

“I hope I’m not coming down with the flu.”

“You don’t look good,” Peter said. “Is there any way you can call out today?”

“I have that team meeting,” Joan said. She found it hard to recall what was on her schedule for today. “I really shouldn’t miss that.”

“That’s just a regular weekly meeting, right?” Peter asked. “‘Babe, you really don’t good. Stay home. I’ll take the kids to school. You should try to set a doctor’s appointment for this afternoon. Call me and I will come and get you.”

“What about the kids this afternoon?” Joan protested. “You can’t cart me around and pick them up.”

“Christ, you’re right,” Peter said as he ran his schedule through his head. “Call your sister and see if she can take you to the doctor.”

“I’ll just drive myself,” Joan said.

“No, I don’t want you to drive yourself,” Peter replied. “You look like you’re going to pass out any minute. Call your sister. See if she can either take you to the doctor or pick up the kids. I’ll do whatever she can’t.”

Peter embraced Joan. It seemed to him that Joan looked like she was about to cry.

“It’ll be fine,” Peter said as he kissed Joan lightly on the forehead. “If your sister can’t pick you up, we’ll work out something else. Just call Kelly and tell her you aren’t coming in. And go lie down. I’ll wrangle the kids.”

“The lunches are in the refrigerator,” Joan told Peter. “And Amber can’t -”

“Amber can’t find her bookbag,” Peter said. “I know. I’ll take care of it. Go lie down.”

Peter poured some coffee into a silver travel mug.

“And make sure you call a doctor.”

Joan grabbed a chair on her way through the dining room. She stopped halfway along the length the couch on her way to the stairs. Her head was pounding. She was sure she had a fever. She climbed the first two stairs and stopped to catch her breath. Her body ached and she felt woozy. She slowly ascended the staircase. Halfway up she stopped.

“Peter, let the dog out,” Joan yelled.

“OK,” Peter responded. “Fritz, come on. Let’s go outside.”

Joan was surprised to find herself at the door of the master bedroom. She didn’t remember climbing the remainder of the stairs or walking down the hall.

“I have the fucking flu, don’t I?” Joan muttered to herself. She let herself fall face first onto the bed.

“Amber Lynn,” Peter called up the stairs. “Come on, sweetheart. We’re going to be late.”

“I’m coming,” Amber hollered as she bounded down the stairs.

Joan listened to the commotion as everyone dashed out the front door. She heard the door shut. The car turned over and pulled out of the driveway. Finally, it was quiet.

Joan wasn’t sure how long she had slept. There was immense pressure in her sinuses, but her throat was dry. Her headache seemed to have gone away, but her muscles ached like she had run a marathon. She felt hot and cold.

She sat up. It was a mistake. Her head pounded in protest. Then she realized she was going to vomit. She got out of bed as quickly as she could, but she wasn’t sure she was going to make it all the way to the bathroom in time. It felt like the body aches were in her bones instead of her muscles.

“Oh, Christ, please,” Joan whimpered as she staggered down the hallway to the bathroom. The hall spun and careened like she had downed a fifth of vodka. She fell to her knees about two feet in front of the bathroom door and crawled the rest of the way to the toilet.

Being lower to the floor felt marginally better than standing upright, but the nausea was still intense. Joan lifted the lid of the toilet and stared into the bowl. For a moment she thought it might have been a false alarm. Then her stomach heaved.

A wave of black bile shot out of Joan’s mouth. It landed in the bowl. On the rim. On the floor. It ran down her chin. Joan heaved over and over. It felt like someone was repeatedly punching her in the stomach. Her throat was raw with the rancid taste of whatever she was puking.

When it seemed the vomiting was done, Joan sat with her back against the bathtub. Her hands were shaking. Her chest felt like it was burning. She looked down at herself. At first she thought the dark stains on her shirt were from the vomit, but as the stained expanded, Joan realized whatever was on her shirt was coming from the inside.

Joan torn off her blouse. Her chest and stomach were covered in black blisters that were visibly expanding and exploding.

“What is happening to me?” Joan cried. She felt a hot tear rolling down her face. Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know what to do.”

Call 911. That idea went off like an alarm in her head. Then another wave of vomiting overtook Joan. She heaved before she could resume her position in front of the toilet. The black bile spattered all over the toilet, the sink and wall. The smell was disgusting.

Joan struggled to get on her hands and knees to crawl back to the bedroom, but she was already so weak she could barely move. Her cell phone was on the nightstand beside her bed. If she could just call her sister. Her sister would come and help. Maybe the dog would go for help. Peter was going to have to clean up. Tim’s lunch was in the fridge. Amber and Joan’s best friend in high school were about the same height.

Then everything went black.

“Timmy, don’t leave your backpack on the floor,” Peter called out to his son as he and the kids burst into the front door.

“Joan?” Peter called upstairs. Joan hadn’t called him about the doctor’s appointment. He tried to call her cell early that afternoon, but Joan didn’t pick up. When he called Joan’s sister, she said she hadn’t heard from Joan all day. Peter thought Joan might have driven herself to the doctor’s, but the car was still in the driveway when he pulled up.

“Joan, are you OK?” Peter asked as he reached the top of the stairs. He could not believe what he was seeing. The bathroom was horrifying. Joan was sitting on floor next to the tub. Her head was thrown back so that she was staring blankly at the ceiling. Her blouse was torn open. Joan was covered in blood or something. Peter couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. Had Joan been attacked? Raped? Was she dead?

“Dad, what’s wrong? Is mom OK?” Amber asked apprehensively from the bottom of the stairs. Peter hadn’t realized he had cried out, but he must have.

“Everything’s fine, baby,” Peter yelled downstairs with more panic in his voice than he intended. “Get your brother and go wait in the car for me. We’ll go get pizza for dinner.”

“What’s the matter, dad?” Amber insisted as she started up the stairs.

“Go sit in the fucking car, Amber!” Peter roared. “Get your brother and go now!”

“Timmy, get your coat,” Peter heard Amber call out to her brother. “Dad says we’re going out.”

The cop who took Peter’s statement must have been in his early twenties. Peter thought the cop looked like a teenager.

There was an ambulance and several police cars on the front lawn. A news van was parked three doors down. Neighbors pressed up against the police parameter to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Most of them were people Peter did not recognize.

As Peter was talking with the officer, he felt someone tugging on his coat.

“Daddy?” Timmy said weakly.

“Not now, buddy,” Peter said. “Daddy is talking to the police right now.”

“Daddy,” Timmy said more insistently. “I don’t feel good.”