Exiled: An Athens Plague Short Story (The Athens Plague series)



  Exiled

  Copyright © 2014 M.E. Wynne

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part or in any form.

  First edition by Something Else Publishing digital edition December 2014

  Being tossed over the wall was the worst thing most people could imagine, worse than getting the Athens virus, worse than dying.

  It was the isolation that made it so terrifying. It had been less than two hours since Nelson had been thrown over. And it hadn’t stopped raining the entire time.

  That was the most surprising thing – the rain.

  Dallas, or New Texas as his younger brother called it, was ordinarily as dusty and dry as the soles of an old rancher’s feet. Regrettably, being tossed wasn’t nearly as surprising. Nelson had wondered if it would happen when he came down with the Athens’ virus three days ago. He also wondered if he might be the exception, if his younger brother Randolph would use his power and influence to protect him.

  He’d been wrong about being an exception. Like he had been about his brother.

  Nelson’s head was thumping in sync with his heart. He shivered from the chills. I need to get out of this rain. Somewhere I can die in peace.

  The highway that led away from the gate where Nelson had been released was quiet and empty. If he remembered correctly, the next exit was two miles up the road.

  Two miles. Can I even walk that far? He pulled his jacket tighter around his thin frame in a futile effort to stem the shaking. Will I collapse before I reach it?

  Nelson’s head grew foggy from the fever, his mind wandering far from the drizzle and the highway to a soccer game when he had scored the winning goal. After the game he’d walked home with his younger brother Randolph.

  “That was impressive, Nels.” Randolph never sounded much like a kid, even at ten. “I wish I was that good at soccer.”

  “Well keep practicing,” I’d said, which was my way of avoiding the truth. Randolph was not good at soccer, and never would be. He should stick with the toy chemistry set he got for his birthday.

  More images trudged through his mind.

  Randolph is being bullied after school. He’s near tears, and physically he’s got no shot to stand down the threat of the bullies. I step in and give one a shove in the chest. Another jumps on me, and I take a few blows before landing one good jab. They all run away.

  Another scene came to him without warning.

  Randolph is accepting the prestigious Darwin Award, given to scientists for breakthroughs in thinking. “I wouldn’t be here today if not for my brother Nelson, who fended off bullies who would have killed me before I reached the age of twelve.” Laughter throughout the auditorium. I feel proud of him today.

  He abandoned me. All those years of helping him out, and even with all his science and influence—it all came to naught.

  ***

  He woke inside an old warehouse, remembering only a few details of how he’d gotten there. Through the blur of the rain, he’d seen a flash of the green exit sign, and tripped down the ramp into a warehouse district. The first two buildings he’d checked smelled like the dead. Finally, by the third, either he didn’t notice the smell anymore or was too exhausted to care. At the back of the building, he’d found an employee break room, and crawled under the table. To either sleep or die.

  But he hadn’t died. That would be six or seven days from now. The Athens’ virus was very efficient, wasting only a little time before claiming victims.

  Some said it had gotten its name because it started in Greece, others claimed it was a small-town Athens somewhere in the U.S., some even speculated it was Athens, Texas, and the fact of the matter was that no one knew where it started because the epidemic spread so fast in those early days. And, another fact of the matter: no one cared.

  It started with the sniffles, like any common cold, and ended in death, usually ten days later. Every system in the body shut down, making it difficult for doctors and scientists to develop a cure. But they were close now. So close.

  Some people were immune, most were not. The telltale terminal sign usually appeared on day three. If your tongue blistered, you were a goner. If not, you’d probably survive. Not that everyone wanted to; suicides had reached an all-time high.

  The pandemic was so large, so all-encompassing, citizens couldn’t be quarantined, so they’d taken a reverse approach, building walls around one section of the city, placing the healthy inside. It’d taken two months of feverish work, some of the workers fighting a real fever to complete the walls. After that, if someone came down with signs of a cold, they were watched closely by all, and if it progressed to a blistered tongue, they were tossed over the wall. Of course tossed over the wall was just slang that had cropped up for being exiled from your home. No one wanted to call it what it really was— a banishment to live out your last hours sick and alone. Tossed away like trash.

  On day three, Nelson’s blisters appeared, he phoned Randolph for help, and was tossed less than an hour later. It must’ve been some kind of record.

  His sleep under the break room table had been dreamless—more like a loss of consciousness—but the memories from childhood were still fresh. Using a chair, he pulled himself up. Wobbly, but standing, he shuffled toward a window. Impossible to tell what time of day it was. The rain had lightened to a drizzle, and the harsh glare of the sun behind the clouds made it look like everything had been bleached to the gray of old, sweaty socks. He wasn’t sure if he’d rather eat or sleep, but let his hunger make the call.

  There was a vending machine on the far wall, the kind that sells chips and candy. He didn’t have any money. No pockets. Using what little strength he had left, he picked up the chair, legs facing out and ran at the machine. The glass shattered. He carefully reached through the hole to pick out a couple bags of Doritos, ripped them open, and shoved the chips into his mouth as fast as he could. Then, he crawled back under the table, and slipped into sleep again.