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Feverish

By: Sarah Martineau

By sarah martineauPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
2

Veronica adjusted her locket with gloved hands before she slunk through the rusted back door of an abandoned local pizzeria. She hated the way the lobster clasp caught on the mole on her decolletage. The cumbersome steel door was much heavier than she anticipated, causing her to stumble over her heels as she ripped her stockings on her way out.

Her heels squeaked as she fastened a power walk into a paranoid jog. She was barely able to lift her feet off the cracked asphalt as her blisters began to sting. Her left six inch heel stem snapped under the weight of the bags of stale garlic bread she looted from the pizzeria, carrying as many as she could in her tired hands.

With the weight of the now defunct world on her shoulders with no one to help her, as if anyone ever bothered to before, she forced herself to go on in snapped heels causing her to fumble after a samba of staggered steps.

Veronica watched the ground inch closer to her face as she fell in what felt like slow motion. She accepted the pain that’d soon rattle her old bones once she finally hit the frigid ground, and recognized that it’d hurt less than the agony of her day to day life. Being jolted once by hitting the ground pales in comparison to the true lonesomeness of forcing yourself to stay alive in a world where everyone would sacrifice you to save themselves. Yet again, how is that much different to the society she lived before the great sickness was spread? Veronica stared at the ground intently, waiting to meet the suffering this fall would cause weeks after with a kiss the same way her family once greeted her in Spain decades before. Before she moved to America in hopes that she’d become a model, before her agent introduced her to cocaine to ‘energize’ her more on set, before her addiction stole her glamorous life from her and she paid off debts with street walking. She always greeted agony with a kiss on the cheek because its presence was a familiar visitor.

When the two finally met, the thud of her skull against the ground put her in a daze. Her vision blurred as she stared at the bags of stale garlic bread flew into the air, and covered the ground like confetti.

Blood rushed from her nose and streamed onto her red fishnet top where it pooled onto her pleather skirt. She didn’t mind the mess, it’s not like many others were around to judge her appearance. And for those who still managed to be near, they were worse off anyways being exposed in the streets.

She rolled from her stomach to her side pinching her nose, and she laid on the ground for a moment to take in her surroundings. She was astounded by how badly the alley had become dilapidated in the short ten months the virus surged throughout the metropolitan area.

The once white fence beams where now covered in clan tags and dirt, some fencing panels removed and thrown haphazardly to make shortcuts for easy looting getaways. Broken bottles, used masks, and rotten food all lined either side of the alleyway. Veronica strained her dilated eyes to focus on the few homeless bodies that lay in the alleyway. She could tell by their tattered clothing and clan tags which were covered in mud that they had been there awhile, unable to seek treatment for their illness. This family clan must’ve set up camp here to revive themselves, where they were enclosed from other people and close to food. But there they lay now presumably dead, given up on the fight for survival. And who could blame them? Without each other they’d be better off dead Veronica figured. She studied one man in particular who held a cardboard sign that read “I’ll repent for a six pack.”

Poor bastards, Veronica thought.

If there was anything left motivating Veronica in this now static world, it was her certain will to live in hopes things might change for the better. Her determination woke her up at noon daily, forcing her to peel herself out of her depression nest to hunt for any necessary supplies till dusk in her protective gear.

Veronica looked up and noticed the shadow cast in the alleyway, the sun hid behind the tall buildings on the other side of the fence. The twilight was overwhelmingly unwelcoming and cold, and the breeze whispered “Go home.” Just as Veronica got up and began to collect her things and go, she heard shuffling behind her as she dusted dirt off the bread. Food was hard to come by now, and no matter how dirty, stale, or raccoon coveted she was determined to bring it home.

Her focus broke for a moment as she heard the shuffling intensify. Damn raccoons, she thought.

As the shuffling began to enclose on her from behind and she swiftly turned around. Veronica’s eyes widened in horror to see the man with the sign, whom she had presumed dead just moments ago, rise as he scraped the mud from his face to reveal silvery blue eyes. If it wasn’t for the initial shock of watching the ‘dead’ man rise, she would have been able to abscond. Instead here she was, frozen in place.

“Get back!” she yelped.

“I like your mask, but the googles and gloves are a nice touch. How’s ‘bout you let me try them on?” The man laughed.

Veronica took baby steps backward, towards the only exit in the alleyway. Sure, she could try to squeeze her overweight frame through the removed panel spots in the fence, but who’s to say he wouldn’t catch her before she could make it all the way through? Or that her auburn waves wouldn’t get caught in the rough sides of the paneling?

The rest of the ‘dead’ bodies began to rise, scraping the dry crusted mud off their faces. Veronica studied their malnourished figures as their tattered clothing hung off their bones, but what caught her attention most was their bloodshot eyes. Mouth agape, Veronica cussed herself out for not leaving sooner. Now she was caught in the crosshairs of looters, or worse, madmen.

“I don’t want any problems with y’all, I just came for some bread.”, Veronica said.

Veronica kicked off her heels and grabbed a single bag of garlic bread off the ground before dashing down the last of the alleyway. Her body grew warm as she broke out in a sweat. Her labored breath revealed just how out of shape she was. Though she taught herself to become quiet as a mouse, she forgot how often they get their cardio in running from predators.

As the group gave chase, Veronica nearly rounded the corner when the man with the sign latched onto her right arm, ruthlessly twisting it with his strong aged hands, she grit her teeth to endure the pain. He threw her to the ground and she looked down to see the sting of the burn had turned her forearm a peony hue.

“Remove your gear or else!” he demanded.

“Back away!” Veronica yelled back.

“Don’t you see? This is the only way people like us have any real power in this world anymore! We control it by remaining sick, where every cog is society’s machine is humbled to the same level. No one works, no one lives their whole lives building another person’s wealth, and everyone is free. A working woman like you ought to be grateful we keep you free!” the man said.

Veronica eyes became watery as the group encircled her as coyotes do to their prey. Going in for the kill, they pulled off her face mask and googles, coughing in her face. Veronica swatted at them as she tightly closed her eyes and held her breath. But she knew it was already too late, she had been infected.

“Feel better soon,” the man laughed, “you’ll be grateful once you realize it’s better this way.”

As the group sauntered away, Veronica sat on the ground for some time. She looked at the now empty streets of the shopping plaza, remembering how droves of people once filled the space before. How she’d come here at night to work, and how low she felt on life’s caste. She went from the scum of the alleyway to a survivor unlike many unlucky civilians overnight. She recalled how over a span of just ten short months the entire country crumbled, only tempest- tost seen this as an opportunity for revolution, where if the citizens remained sick everyone could, for once, be on the same level as the affluent.

The yellow streetlights flickered on and lit the sidewalk of the shopping plaza, Veronica followed the path all the way south of downtown to the Rest EZ motel. The closer Veronica got to where she set up camp, the more faint the idle music over the loudspeaker became. She hummed the 80’s elevator music just as she had working late nights in the plaza, when her friends smoked with her at did nothing more than shoot the breeze in between their Johns. Veronica cherished this white noise in a now static world.

The Rest EZ motel was revered by Veronica as a “cozy getaway”, when in reality it was a shanty of five rooms and a neon sign that dimly glowed with missing letters. The parking lot had no car released after 1998 within it’s lot, and all the door locks where smashed from looters. Despite its flaws like the water stained ceilings and decades old scuffs in the floral wallpaper, Veronica still felt some comfort here. For years this was a place of business, holiday parties with her girls, and a warm place she knew she could wake up out of harm’s way. Whether it was the eldery owners letting her washing her unmentionables in the laundry hall or the complimentary breakfast, no where else for her was home since she left Spain. The Rest EZ was all she had left, and it was slowly falling apart as everything else in her life has.

Veronica slowly paced the last of the way down the path and up to her room’s door. She turned the knob quickly, slamming the door shut behind her. She slid the dresser in front of the door and rushed in to starfish on the bed like she did when she was a kid, opening her locket to admire her mother’s warm expression before gently closing it.

The hands of the wall mounted clock danced around for hours as She napped before waking to a throbbing migraine. She struggled to sit up with her muscles aching in a way they never had before, stomach nauseous, and head warm. She felt feverish.

For once she gave up on peeling herself out of bed like always, after that nasty fall she expected her aged body to not bounce back. She laid her head back down on the pillow and closed her eyes. She was tired of being tired. She had put everything she had into staying alive, so certain, so determined. But with the way the world is now, there is no escaping the virus. After all, it is only those who embraced the chaos it caused who were truly free if not happy. Maybe lying on this bed and falling asleep was also freedom. Or maybe giving in to the virus she was infected with now and not trying to fight the fate it may bring her, was truly freedom. The ‘what ifs’ didn’t matter to her anymore, she was feverish, tired, and ready to die.

She clutched her locket and kissed the air, waiting for agony to come home to her.

fiction
2

About the Creator

sarah martineau

Sarah Martineau is currently a junior at Nevada State College where she studies a double major of History: Pre-Law, and Creative Writing, and is active in her university's Blue Sage Writer's Guild, local ballet company, and Phi Alpha Theta.

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