Love Songs: The Wrong Note - A Collection of Short Stories

5

The grippe did not care about your social status. It had no thought for youth or old age. It inflicted misery and pain to any and all.

But to Obidiah Reverstall, it seemed business was never better.

Until the pestilence became a raging inferno, and people started dropping like flies.

***

"What are we doing to do, Jackson?" Obidiah asked. "There's no way on God's earth we can build coffins fast enough for this."

Jackson had been working for fourteen hours straight. For the last few weeks, he'd not darkened the door of the blacksmith shop.

Obidiah wouldn't hear of it.

And the money he paid Jackson to build the boxes and dig holes amounted to a small fortune.

Jackson, though well-past middle age, was still healthy and strong and able to do the work of men much younger. But there was no way he could keep up with the carnage that this plague was causing.

"We could stack the bodies in the sheds, I guess," he offered.

Obidiah looked at Jackson like he'd slapped his employer in the face.

"Well," Jackson asked, "what do you suggest?"

"I don't know," the undertaker said. "Nobody but you will work for me. They're afraid of coming down with it. Frankly, I'm scared of that myself, but if you and me don't try to do what's decent by these folks, who will?"

Jackson decided to move into Obidiah's little shop. It saved traveling time to and from work. Plus, it kept him away from Vera, who was even more on edge than usual.

The stress of imminent death had done a number on her. He could not talk to her or manage her bizarre outbursts, so he chose to leave her to her own devices.

Besides, nobody in the village cared if Jackson was living at home or not.

They had other more pressing matters on their minds.