Angel Virus [ONC 2022]

Chapter Three. Feverish.

I rolled my head to one side, and Dad was there. Now, I knew he wasn't, but I knew he was, too. It's hard to articulate, this splitscreen sort of perception, but I'd better try. At the risk of giving the wrong impression, let's call the world where Dad was the spiritual realm, and the world where Dad wasn't the material world. And now that I see those words, I shake my head. They're wrong, but I don't have better ones.

Anyway, I about jumped out of my skin. I leapt to my feet and stared. I didn't see clothes, or skin and bones. I just saw Dad. The essence of Dad, after the body is gone. But at the same time, his blunt fingers were there, masters of screwdriver and hammer, and warm and heavy on the back of my neck when he'd give it a squeeze. He had no body, but the scar from when a loose saw blade sliced through his shoulder was there all the same. The pain of losing Mom was written all over him, but in the ink of acceptance and peace. And I could see his love for me. See it. Feel it. Know it.

The corners of his eyes (that weren't there) squeezed and made crows-feet, and his (nonexistent) lips curved upwards. "You can see me?" he (didn't) say.

"Dad? Jeez, am I hallucinating?"

Laughter. "No, not at all, but it's a surprise. A nice one."

I rubbed my eyes. Then I burst into tears. I choked out, "It's good to see you, Dad."

"I love you, son. Sure is fun to have you talk back to me. Usually, it's a one-way conversation." We hugged, somehow, in a no-body sort of way. It felt good, and it lasted a while.

Reality stayed firm. The room still smelled of alcohol and nothing. But the other reality focused sharper and expanded. Traceries of solid light arced in graceful trajectories, forming the fabric of a psychedelic spacetime, achingly beautiful but homey as an apple pie cooling on the windowsill. Dad perched on a froth of spirit-butterflies and regarded me warmly.

I frowned. "I see your saw-scar. Where are all the cuts from when you died?"

He laughed. The non-sound warmed me from my heart to my toes in a wave of joy. "That's not really a part of me. I mean, bang-ouch and it's over. The saw accident, though. I dealt with that for years, so it's a part of me. You're a part of me. And Trixie. Your mom, of course."

"Where's Mom?"

"Near. Nobody's far away. Liz? Come over here. Rik's got spirit eyes or something."

Before he even finished his thought, she was there, and I was bawling like crazy again. She stroked my hair, even though she couldn't possibly, and I saw her patience and zest for life like neon signs. Her love was like a bulldozer. Its crawler tracks and shiny blade obliterated the blood and the stretch marks and the sleepless nights and transformed them into pleasant, amusing love notes. She cooed and told me everything was fine, and because I could perceive their world, I knew it was true.

"Miss you, Mom." I mumbled through wet lips. She died when I was ten. Cancer.

"Rik, my Rik. How delightful you can speak to me. Precocious thing, aren't you?" Her voiceless voice quivered with excitement.

I laughed a shaky laugh through my tears. "Well, if I'm not going crazy, maybe it's the virus."

The pair of them perceived me closely and thoughtfully. I got the impression of an affirmative pair of nods.

As we three-way hugged in the spiritual realm, my tears stopped gushing and I started to enjoy myself. Maybe this was the craziest of dreams, but if so, it was one I didn't want to end. We babbled to each other for hours, all of us like burst water mains. I cried a few more times, such as when Dad told me how proud he was of me and the way I take care of Trixie. I learned that after you die, you can take up new interests. They're analogous to music, art, dance, and literature, but amped up and multidimensional. They didn't need to quiz me too much. Turned out, they spy on me and Trixie all the time, especially when we have to do stressful things.

All this ended in the best way possible. I yawned, and my parents (sort of) tucked me into bed and (metaphorically) sang me a lullaby. I might have felt that warm and safe and secure back when I was two or six or whatever, but I doubt it.

A plastic-gloved hand shook me awake. "Sorry to wake you, Mr. Fernandez. Got to take your vitals."

I made an obligatory groan sound, but I actually felt rested and ready to roll. I sat up and offered the nurse (I presume there was one, inside the suit) my arm. "Not a worry. What's your name?"

"Eh? Um, Robert."

His gloves were clumsy, so I helped him wrap the Velcro pressure cuff around my bicep. "Nice to meet you. Just call me Rik. What's new, Robert?"

"Um, nothing much."

I peered through the clear window over his face. His eyes were brown and distracted. Ordinarily, I'm about as empathetic as a clod of dirt, but in that moment I could almost feel his worry as if it were my own. My voice sounded oddly soothing as I said, "You can tell me about it, Robert. I'm stuck in here, right? I won't tell anybody."

And just like that, his valve clicked open and he started spilling. His father had been having terrible diarrhea and would be visiting the hospital today for an evaluation. His mom couldn't cope on her own but he, Robert, was stuck working so he couldn't help. Also, this mystery virus scare was freaking him out. He couldn't afford a bout of super-anthrax right now.

He stuck a thermometer under my tongue. I said, "Fanks for sssharing, Woberth. I fink this will work outh, though."

"Thanks, Rik. You're quite a guy, you know?"

I could only spread my hands in self-deprecation. "So're you, Robert. You're a good man, to think about your folks like you do. They love you a lot, you know."

Such odd words coming out of my mouth, and delivered in such sure tones. But the words were true, and I felt good saying them. I felt warm all over, really.

The nurse agreed about my 'warm all over,' sort of. "Shit," he said. "You're running a fever."

I saw it, or perhaps I felt it with my new sixth sense, but by whatever mechanism the notion arrived by, I knew that a curtain of fear descended over Robert. At that moment, a black rounded head leaned out from behind Robert's plastic helmet. Serrated spikes jutted from its chitinous black dome. Red eyes squinted over an overwide, vicious mouth that grinned with pointed blood-colored teeth.

My jaw went slack as I stared in incomprehension. Robert interpreted my expression as fear and cleared his throat. "Well, I got my data. See you later, Rik." Hastily, he gathered his kit and headed for the double-door exit. The creature that rode him clung to his shoulders with hooked black claws. It hissed and burbled to itself, as if speaking in a vile private language. Black mist drizzled from it like stink made visible.

As Robert made his exit, his demonic parasite took notice of me. Baring its teeth, it thrust its head forward and hissed. The sheer ferocity of that blast of hatred rocked me back on my heels. I felt the blood drain from my face.

The black-and-red creature watched my reaction. I half expected it to leap at me and begin to claw its way through my flesh, but it stayed attached to Robert. My last impression of it stuck in my mind. Wrinkles appeared between its beady eyes and its toothy grimace drooped, with a hint of a tremble to it.

And then Robert and his passenger were gone.

I mumbled to myself, "Weird. Whatever that thing was, it was scared of me."