The Citrus Syndrome

5 ; bus

Bus

Isaiah

It rains in Houston today, which is fitting.

My neighbors are sick. They'd better stay the fuck away from me, because if they don't, I won't hesitate to do what I've gotta do. It's every man for himself.

I'm packing up to leave, anyway. In the back of my mind, I know where I'm going to go. But on the surface, I'm just pack. Just shoving everything that will fit into my suitcase and catching bits of the news as I walk by the TV.

Ten thousand cases already reported. Estimated twenty thousand unreported cases. Man kills twenty in hallucination-caused car accident. Hospitals rejecting TCS sufferers for safety of patients and staff.

This is like the zombie apocalypse. Every few minutes, I hear shouts and crashes from neighboring houses, garbled screams through the rain. I don't understand, really. I saw the pamphlets at Stop and Shop yesterday, but I didn't take one. I didn't know this was such a big deal.

Pausing for a rational second, I decide to google it. Hey, this could save my life, right? It's worth five minutes of my packing time.

I find the pamphlet easily. Opening the PDF, I try not to catch my reflection in the glare of my monitor. I don't want to know if I look sick.

Medical name - The Citrus Syndrome. Okay, fair enough. They call it TCS, or Lime Fever. That's good to know, I guess. Causes are unknown . . . god, is this like some top secret government virus or something?

The Citrus Syndrome is transmitted through fear. Wait, what? That's not how diseases work. I keep reading, my eyes growing wider with each sentence. What the hell is this thing? And why am I still here?

No more time for packing. My heart beats loud in my throat, urging me out the door. I feel like I just found out that my house is haunted. I have to get out.

Unfortunately, I sold my car about two months ago to pay the rent on this crappy little apartment. That means I'm gonna have to wait for for the bus or call an uber. What if the driver is infected? What if the people on the bus are infected?

I opt for the bus. It leaves in about seven minutes anyway. By the time I reach the stop, it'll be there.

Grabbing my raincoat from the hook, I switch off the lights and rush out of that damn apartment faster than my mother kicked me out when I finished high school.

I know it's more dangerous outside, but I feel better out here. The rain seems to wash away any trace of the dreaded virus that I felt on my skin. It cleanses the panic for a second, dousing the flame of paranoia.

But it flares up again the moment I step onto the bus. So many people, all with the same goal as I -- to get away from here, as soon as possible. I slip into a seat at the very back of the bus, wondering how many people on this vehicle are infected. That woman in the window seat in front of me? She's looking a little grayish. She's watching herself in the window. I think she knows.

I still won't admit to myself where I'm really going. Away, that's what I tell myself. I'm going away, simply away from here. I'm doing the smart thing for once in my life and going away from the danger, not right into it like I know, in the back of my mind, that I really am.

A man starts down the aisle, toting a backpack in one hand and a little boy in the other. The boy has watery green eyes and a wobbling frown, like he's about to cry. I cringe when the man plops himself down beside me. He does this unapologetically, planting his ass solidly on the seat and lifting the boy into his lap. I grimace, pressing myself to the wall of the bus. He doesn't get the hint.

I want to yell at him, get away from me! There are fifty other empty seats on this frickin bus, what're you doing in this one?

Except there aren't, I realize. Almost every seat is full.

Well maybe Americans aren't as stupid as I've always thought us to be. We have good instincts. Danger? Bye!

Maybe these people aren't all running away, I think to myself. Maybe they're like me . . .

I guess it's time to admit to myself where I'm going. The bus is pulling away from the curb. The street lights of Houston blur by in the window. I sigh, trying not to breathe. Dallas. I have to go to Dallas.

It's frustrating to think about why. I mean, I'm not stupid. I don't let my heart override my head. My emotions don't dictate my actions. Yet, here I am. On a bus. To friggin Dallas where this freaking virus originated.

The man next to me doesn't move, but his kid does. The boy wriggles in his lap, slamming himself against the seat in front of us and jerking back an forth. I glance his way. Is this normal? I think I'm just being paranoid, but that could be a sign, couldn't it?

But I don't have the energy to tap the man on the shoulder. He seems to be in the zone, anyway. I don't want to ruin his peace. As much as I sort of hate him (irrationally, I know, I know) I envy him. If I can't have that, at least he can.

I identify more with the boy. I feel like slamming my face into the vinyl as well. Instead, I settle for fidgeting with the tassle on my sweatshirt. I don't take off my raincoat, although I know it will be a long bus ride. Three and a half hours, at least. But no one else moves, so I stay still.

I look at the boy. He can't be more than five. Goddamn, we're all gonna die.