Angel Virus [ONC 2022]

Chapter Five. Resa Rockthwaite.

I had nothing to do with the following happenings. One, my next temperature reading was normal. Two, Dr. Friel and the other biologists had suffered miserable nights on their plastic beds and they ached to go home. Three, the president of Delphia University called Dr. Friel and at great length and in considerable detail compared the fees for occupying an entire wing of the hospital with the money needed to feed all the children in Africa.

Dr. Friel's beleaguered eyes glanced over to me (Trixie and I were dancing the Macarena to channel 58 on the TV) and she wilted. "Yes, sir. I will certify good health for everybody. Either the virus or its cargo is inert." She regained some fire. "As expected. I have assigned the highest probability to the dud scenario from the beginning."

She listened for a while, then nodded. "I'll coach everyone on what to say." "Yes, sir." "Yes, sir." "Goodbye, sir." She pocketed her phone and raised her eyes to the ceiling. A ten-count later, she slapped the hospital call button.

Long story short, after a consultation with the head doctor and one more round of vital signs, we were pronounced free to go. The "coaching" Dr. Friel had promised to give us was a request to be extremely pleasant to any reporters that might request an interview about the routine precautions that confirmed no infections.

So fast it made our heads spin, nurses filled our arms with our street clothes. We dressed, signed release forms, and strolled through the lobby toward the exit. Trixie and I didn't attract attention, but two reporters sprawled in chairs leapt to their feet and zeroed in on the biologists like hounds to rabbits.

Trixie and I just walked, for a while. It was a decent day, for winter. A cold sun blazed beyond diaphanous curtains of mare's tail clouds. A few snowdrifts hadn't melted, and the chilly breeze tightened our pores. Distant city sounds drizzled on our ears like music liquefied. We knew it was a long walk home, and we knew we couldn't afford a cab.

Sis broke the silence. "I'm hungry."

"Whew, me, too. Let's detour through the U. and find a cafeteria." I eyed her. Something was off. I stewed over for two full minutes before I figured it out. "Trixie!"

"Mm?"

"You're walking. I mean, you're really striding along." Of all the weird things we'd just experienced, this one threw me off-kilter the most. My stomach tingled with a weightless sensation. Trixie's legs had always been skinny and knock-kneed. Her every step lurched and twisted as if she were controlled by a mad puppeteer. Always. Until this minute.

She stopped dead and snapped her head downward to inspect. She ran her hands down her thighs and over her kneecaps. "Well, what do you know?" Her head snapped up and she grinned at me, "And where'd your whiskers go? Into hibernation?"

My hand strayed to my smooth chin.

"You did catch that virus, Rik. And I caught it," she said. "And it's a doozy. Let's list the things."

We resumed our walk.

"Well," I said, "There's the spirit realm."

"Right, extrasensory perception into the world of the dead. Heaven?"

"Neither Mom nor Dad mentioned the word. But, maybe, I guess. It's amazing enough."

Trix gazed around at its luminous splendor, but I forged ahead, ticking points off finger by finger. "Abundant health, that's one. Your legs. My facial hair. Trixie? Did you catch sight of the parasites?"

"What? Ew. No. Is that the next thing I get to deal with?" Trixie examined her arms and checked under the cuffs of her sleeves.

"No, not on us. On other people. Probably on everyone. They're different sizes but they're all ugly."