Biohazard

2

My wife had the gruesome twosome: radiation sickness and cholera. She got the former from the fallout coming down in the rains that swept the city for weeks, flooding the streets and backing up sewers and washing infected waste into yards and homes. She got the latter because like so many others she was weak from radiation sickness and the fact that the city’s water supply was absolutely contaminated.

There was no point in bringing her to the hospital because they were vastly overcrowded with the sick and dying, corridors packed with people waiting for treatment, hospital incinerators blazing like blast furnaces as contaminated dressings, waste products, body fluids, and corpses were fed to the flames. The medical health system of Ohio, like the rest of the country, was inadequate as the infected and sick inundated it. It simply couldn’t handle the sheer numbers.

It wasn’t prepared.

And as drugs and medical supplies stopped coming in-factories around the country shutting down, commerce grinding to a halt-there wasn’t enough to go around. Somewhere during the process, the staffs themselves sickened.

You get the picture.

Anyway, the fallout had already made Shelly pretty sick, but it was the cholera that hammered the final nail in her coffin. I washed her, medicated her, fed her, held her through many long nights.

Cholera is a nasty business.

Vomiting and diarrhea, painful cramping and dehydration, fevers and delusions. It’s not pretty. I treated her the way the hospital told me to and with what they gave me. I made sure she drank lots of fluids. I dissolved packets of sodium, potassium, glucose, and chloride in her water, made sure she got it down. Gave her injections of antibiotics?tetracycline, ampicillin, chloramphenicol?but mostly I just held her and soothed her while something inside, maybe hope and faith, withered and went black like flower petals on a crypt floor.

It was horrible.

I kept remembering that in August we’d vacationed at Chesapeake Bay on Smith Island and things had been good, very good. The sun had been bright and the water had been sparkling and I rubbed suntan oil on her back. She was bronze in the sun and her eyes were a deep Caribbean blue. We made love at night and beach-bummed during the day and ate clams in the evening.

And six months later she died trembling in my arms.

I kept watch over her corpse for days.

It was some kind of twisted wake, I guess. I lit candles and talked to her, alternately crying and screaming out her name, but mostly drinking whiskey in some numb alcoholic stupor, my mind sucked into a whirlpooling psychosis of grief and guilt and denial.

Down below, in the streets, the corpse wagons rolled and the crazies rioted and what was left of the police put them down in a grisly baptismal of blood and then were themselves put down.

“They won’t get you, Shelly,” I told her. “I won’t let them.”

It was getting worse day by day.

Four months now. Four months and I was still in Youngstown, hoping, maybe, that humanity would regroup and that we’d be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. But it wasn’t going to happen and what was spread out on the couch was testament to that.

I knew I should have gotten out.

I should have gotten both of us out of the city?maybe across the state line into PA, my sister in Newcastle?but I kept holding onto some crazy and utterly fucked-up idea that the end of the world was going to pass like a bout of the flu. Civilization had shit its pants and vomited its guts out, but it would pass. The fever would run its course.

That’s how deep in denial I was. For when those bombs fell…and baby, they came down like rice at a wedding…the world ripped the seat right out of its pants like a fat lady bending over and there was no seamstress that could hope to stitch it back up again.

And now Shelly was dead.

Dead.

She was pale as bleached stone, her body shriveled and ghastly in death. Outside, a fearsome gonging rolled through the neighborhood. The bell of St. Mark’s: Bong, bong, bong, bring out yer dead!

But I wasn’t about to.

Not Shelly. I’d never let them get her. I’d never let them burn her in one of those terrible pits with the others. The idea was just grotesque to the extreme and I could not allow it to happen. But I couldn’t sit with her day after day. Not only because it was seriously demented, but because eventually they would come for her. There had to be something I could do. Then I got the idea of burying her in secret. Such a thing was unlawful, it was banned. If people saw you they would report you and if the police and civil authorities caught you they would shoot you. But that only made it all that much more necessary.

I was going to bury my wife, have a little service over her grave.

That’s what I was going to do and I coldly planned on murdering any asshole that got in my way. So, that godawful church bell gonging in my ears, I got my shit together, smoothed out the rough spots, and got down to it. For the first time in weeks I smiled, taking a secret, warped joy in the fact that I would bury my wife illegally. It was my way of raising my middle finger to the state. Fuck them. Fuck authority. Fuck those that had created this nightmare in the first place. Those evil, fucked-up minds, all part of the same corrupt bureaucracy that had killed the world.

I took a white satin coverlet that Shelly had loved and wrapped her up in it, kissed her cold dead lips once last time and stitched it shut. Outside, the trucks were getting closer. I could hear them rumbling, see their flashing lights arcing in the dark sky. Out on the streets there were voices.

They were coming.

Bring out yer dead.