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The Chills
Short Fiction/
Soon to appear in
The Muse's Carpenter
Word Count 4,609
Greg
Johnson woke up at 4:30 am as normal. No alarm clock, just the aroma of
a freshly brewed pot of coffee which he has programmed to brew every
morning at 4:25 am. When it finishes brewing, the aroma hits his
upstairs bedroom, waking him at precisely 4:30am.
After Greg rolls out of bed and
puts on his robe, which is always hanging on the right side of his
headboard, he slowly makes his way to the bathroom and then downstairs.
He walks to the living room window, pulls back the curtain and looks
down the street. The paper boy flies around the corner on his bike right
on time- pulling tightly rolled newspapers out of his backpack and
tossing them with sniper precision, hitting every door of his route.
Greg takes six steps to his front door, opens it and catches the
newspaper just before it hit the door.
“Every single time Mr. Johnson”
The boy says shaking his head and waving. Greg offers his normal
courteous half smile and closes the door. As he walks to the kitchen
counter, he thinks of the paper boy. He feels a little admiration for
the boy: he has to be about fifteen, has been consistent with the paper
for eight months, and has never ruined Greg’s day by showing up late.
That makes the kid, ok, in Greg’s mind.
Greg pours himself a hot cup of
coffee in his favorite ceramic cup with the picture of the St. Louis
Arch imprinted on it and he sits down to sip and read. He looks over at
the atomic clock above his coffee pot on the counter: 4:59. He stands
up, folds the news paper in half and drops it in the trash compactor. He
washes his coffee cup and then lays it upside down on a small hand towel
next to his coffee pot to dry.
A buzzer sounds in the
basement. Greg walks down the hall, down the basement stairs, and into
the laundry room. He retrieves a pair of jeans and a black polo from the
dryer. Not too hot, nice and toasty; just like they are every single
morning.
Greg has always been this way;
as far as he can remember. His parents never had to tell him to clean
his room, or suggest how he should use his time more wisely. In Greg’s
mind everything has to have a perfect flow to it. He hates surprises.
When something happens unexpectedly he nearly has a break down
emotionally. Even his family and friends know that they need to give him
a good month’s notice when they plan to come and visit. This way he has
time to re-adjust his perfect schedule around the inconvenience.
As far as relationships; Greg’s
been in several, but they never last too long. Is it the fact that he’s
overweight, or that his light brown hair is peppered with grey? Not at
all, what Greg lacks in personal beauty, he more than makes up for with
his perfect, half crescent, pearly white smile. Women find Greg’s smile
irresistible and his crystal blue eyes dreamy.
The problem for Greg is not
getting dates, it’s after the first date that he usually losses them. It
would be impossible for a woman to find any real priority in his life,
and Greg, would be driven insane with the first signal of any real
unexpected relationship issue.
The only real friend Greg has
is Sharon Cole, a secretary at the same firm that Greg persecutes for.
Sharon has tried many times to get close to him, but he’s a master at
erecting social walls. No matter how many times he pushes her away, she
has feelings for him that she can’t shake.
Of course, there are Greg’s
other co-workers. Although he knows that those at the firm are really
not his friends outside the office, it’s kind of nice to play the game
while at the office. He pretends that they’re not unorganized horrible
stewards of their time, and they pretend that he’s half normal. They
don’t spend time trying to be his buddy, and he responds the same – a
perfect marriage.
Greg tries his hardest not to
do anything apart from his routine, this includes any random acts of
kindness, opportunities to help someone in need, or anything else that
requires spontaneity. As a practicing prosecutor Greg feels that his
job is his good deed for the day.
He finishes getting ready and
walks into his garage. The car keys hang on a nail next to the light
switch. A little black key pad with a ring attached to it holds his
keys. He pushes the little red button with the word, ‘GO’ and his
car’s ignition turns on. He then presses a yellow button with a picture
of a black flame, and the heater turns on - warming the car. Although
by noon it’ll be a sweltering 90 to 100 degrees, 5:00am is crisp,
chilly, and way too cold for Greg’s liking.
He walks back into the kitchen,
throws away the used coffee filter and refills it for the next day. This
keeps everything consistent and it allows the heater in the car just
enough time to heat to Greg’s perfectly desired temperature.
He gets into the drivers seat,
checks all the mirrors, and fastens his seat belt. He reaches up and
clicks the garage door opener which he has clipped to the front right
corner of his sun visor.
As the garage door opens he
begins backing out into the street. Suddenly he spots a little boy jot
behind his car. Hitting the brakes as hard as he can, Greg looks over
his shoulder and checks all the mirrors. No sign of the boy. Greg
quickly jumps out of his car and runs to the back.
The boy lies on the ground
motionless. His eyes closed, arms spread out on the ground, and his left
leg is folded under him. The boy looks, to Greg, to be about eight years
old. Thick mucus runs from his nose and his olive colored cheeks are
swollen.
Greg franticly looks up and
down his street for the boy’s parents. The street is clear. He looks
back at the boy, whose still lying motionless. He quickly reaches into
his jacket pocket and retrieves his cell phone. His fingers shake
nervously as he dials 911.
“91l what’s your emergency?” A
female operator says, Greg thought she was a little too cheerful for
being a 911 operator.
“I hit a kid with my car.” He
says anxiously.
“Did I hear you correct sir?
You ran a child over?”
“No, I was pulling out of my
driveway and he ran behind me. I didn’t run him over.”
“How is the child doing?” The
operator asks.
“The child is a boy,
about eight years of age. He’s not moving at all.”
“Can you tell if he’s
breathing?”
Greg bends down close to the
boy and looks at his chest, searching for any sign of compression? “I
can’t tell, he’s wearing a thick sweater.”
“Sir, I need you to try and
feel for a pulse.”
“I shouldn’t
touch him.” Greg says. His hands start to sweat profusely. Beads of
sweat accumulate at the bottom of the phone and a drip falls to the cold
ground. He wipes his forehead and feels sweat run down behind his ears
and trickle down his spine. He swallows hard. There’s a gurgle in his
throat. “I can’t touch him.”
“Sir, listen to me, I need to
know if the boy is alive. I need you to feel his neck for a
pulse. I’ll walk you through it.”
“I need an ambulance. My
address…”
“I’ve got your location from
the GPS on your cell phone. The ambulance should be there quickly. Can
you listen to my voice and…”
A siren blares about a block
down. The white and red ambulance flies around the corner, two blocks
away.
“I see them; they’re pulling
onto my street. Thanks.” Greg stuffs his cell back into his jacket,
relieved that he didn’t have to touch the boy. The ambulance screeched
to a halt next to Greg and the boy. Greg steps out of the way as an EMT
checks the boy’s vitals and puts a brace on his neck. They put him on a
gurney and into the back of the ambulance.
“Sir, we’re going to need to
take him in; make sure that this bump on his head is not as bad as it
looks. Get in.”
“Oh, I’m not his father. I
just…” Greg’s cut off as they rush him onto the ambulance, seat belt him
in and speed down the road. Greg tries to explain to someone that he
doesn’t know the kid and needs to get to work, but his pleas are lost in
the commotion.
The boy starts to seize up. He
foams at the mouth and the EMT holds his head to keep him from knocking
into anything around him. Suddenly the boy reaches over and grabs Greg’s
right wrist. He looks into Greg’s eyes, “The Chills” he says through
clenched teeth. The boy’s hand turns freezing cold; like dry ice burning
Greg’s skin. He jerks his hand out of the boy’s grip. The boy pulls his
arms in and lays back, calm.
The EMT tries several different
things to help the boy, but it’s no use. The boy dies only three city
blocks from the hospital.
***
That night, Greg tosses in his
sleep. The boy’s face haunts his dreams. He tosses and turns all through
the night. A crackling noise is heard. Greg jerks; he opens his eyes and
looks around the room. The street lamp dimly lights his room through the
window shades; not much, just enough to allow him to see the faint
silhouette of his dresser and closet door- which is open.
He peers into the dark corners
of his room. There’s something uncanny about the night, a strange
feeling in his bedroom. The sweat on Greg’s back collects into a large
drip that runs along his spine. He wipes his forehead. It’s freezing,
he thinks. He reaches to the end of the bed, unfolds his comforter, and
pulls it over his body. Cuddling up with his pillow, his body shakes
uncontrollably.
Greg struggles to make himself
get up and go to the bathroom where his thermometer is. Stumbling down
the hall, arms folded, shoulders scrunched up, he makes it to the
restroom. He opens the mirror and grabs the thermometer. Hands
trembling, he slides it under his arm and sits on the toilet, his whole
body shivers. The thermometer beeps.
“98.9, how can that be, I’m
freezing.” He says out loud.
He looks at the shower. Quickly
jumping in, he turns on the hot water. Within a few seconds steam fills
the bathroom. Greg slides down the tile wall, sitting in the tub. Hot
water pours down on him as he holds himself shaking. After about fifteen
minutes the water goes cold. Greg forces himself out of the shower and
runs naked downstairs. He grabs the cordless phone off the wall, pushes
the auto brew button on the coffee maker and heads into the living room
where he grabs three quilts. He wraps himself and crashes on the couch.
Soon, he falls asleep to the sound of his teeth chattering.
***
RING, RING, RING
Greg looks at the digital clock
on the wall, 10:38 am. The phone rings again. He reaches to the floor
next to his couch, picks up the phone and looks at the caller id.
“Sh-sh- sh-sh-ar-r-r-on-n-n” he stutters through quivering lips.
“Hey Greg, I heard about yesterday and I
wanted to make sure…”
“Shha-r-ron-n, I’m
free-z-z-zing cold. I can’t stop shiv-v-v-errring.” Greg forces out.
“You have a fever?”
“I-I-I- d-don’t kn-ow. I
d-d-don’t have a t-t-tem-pera-t-ture, but I’m f-f-free-ee-zing.”
“Greg, I’m going to come over
after I get off and bring you some chicken broth. I was a little worried
when I found out about that kid you hit. Is he ok?”
“N-n-n-no, he, he, died.”
“Oh Greg, no. I’m so sorry. How
are you doing?”
“I can’t t-t-talk, n-n-n-ow;
I’m frezz-zzing.”
“Ok. Tell you what, I have some
paid time off I need to take. I’m going to go ahead and get out of here.
I’ll run over to Save-N-Shop and then I’ll be over. See you in about an
hour.”
“k-k-kay”
Greg slowly gets to his feet
and heads into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee.
***
Sharon grabs her jacket and
drops by the office. “Tom, I’m heading out early. You heard about Greg
hitting that kid yesterday didn’t you?”
“Yeah, how’s he doing?”
“The kid died; Greg’s not doing
very well at all. I’m going to head over to his house and offer some
comfort.” Sharon says.
“That’s fine. Give him my
regards.”
“Thanks, Tom”
Sharon drives to the nearest
Save-N-Shop and buys some broth. She also grabs a few allergy
medications and Benadryl. She purchases a two-litter of 7-up and heads
to Greg’s house.
Sharon pulls into Greg’s
driveway, grabs the bag of groceries, and walks to the door. She knocks
a few times but gets no answer. Twisting the doorknob the door opens. A
smell immediately strikes her. “Greg are you cooking something?” Sharon
walks into the kitchen. The groceries fall to the ground in slow motion
as she covers her mouth with her hands screaming.
The two-litter top pops off on
impact and soda sprays all over the kitchen. Sharon’s eyes widen as she
looks at Greg with horror. Greg has his hands on the electric stove; the
stove top glows red, the flesh of Greg’s fingers are burnt black and
stuck to the stove top. Black smoke rises from his charred hands. The
smell of burnt flesh and blood is unmistakable. His chest is charred and
melted, the flesh ripped and twisted. She runs over and knocks him on
the floor. He grabs his knees and huddles into a fetal position,
shaking.
“What are you doing, Greg?
Trying to kill yourself?”
“I-I-I’m free-eezing Sharon,
the boy p-p-put a cur-r-rse o-o-on m-m-me, it’s the b-b-oy.”
Sharon wraps Greg up in a
blanket –he’s naked – and rushes him out to the car and to the General
Hospital. As they drive, Greg turns the heater on full blast.
Sharon reaches over and puts
her hand on his head. “You don’t feel hot at all.”
“I’m-m-m f-f-freezing!” Greg
shouts.
“It’s about 100 degrees out
today, Greg,”
“N-n-not t-t-to m-m-me!”
“What’s going on with you,
Greg? Is it the boy?” Sharon asks, as they quickly swerve around cars on
the left and right.
“Y-y-yes, it’s the b-b-boy. I
t-t-told you. I hit him-m-m and he g-r-r-rabbed m-m-my arm and put some
k-k-kind of curse on-n m-m-me before he died. A gypsy cur-r-r-se.”
“Come on, Greg. A curse?”
“You d-d-don’t have t-t-to
believe m-m-me, Sharon.”
“I want to, Greg. I care about
you, you know that. This just sounds a little crazy.” They fly into the
hospital parking lot hopping the curbs. Sharon’s car plows through
bushes and she nearly hits two pedestrians, who jump out of the way. The
car screeches to a hard stop in front of the emergency entrance. “We’re
here.” She says. Greg’s teeth chatter and he says nothing else.
***
Dr. William Foster walks down
the long white hall, flipping pages on a clipboard. He reads through the
pages and shakes his head in confusion. Walking into the waiting room he
sees Sharon standing against the wall, staring out the hospital window.
She’s the only one in the small room. “Mrs. Johnson?”
“How’s Greg?”
“I honestly don’t know what to
say, Mrs. Johnson.”
“I’m not Greg’s wife, just a
friend. What can you tell me, doctor?”
“I can tell you that you got
him in here just in time. He has first, second, and first degree burns
on his chest and hands. He nearly lost the use of his hands;
burnt the flesh to the bone. I’m surprised he’s even talking. It looks
like he burnt his tongue, throat, and stomach pretty bad too.”
“Oh my! How?” Sharon brings her
hands to her chest and takes a deep breath.
“He told us that he downed an
entire pot of scalding coffee, hoping to warm himself up on the inside.
He’s coughing up large chucks of skin. We’re going to hook him up to an
intense humidifier tonight. It’ll help him breath, his throat is raw. ”
“And he’s not sick?” Sharon
says.
“He’s even chipped his teeth by
chattering, and grinding them so hard. Oh, he’s sick alright, but not
with a fever. I think that he’s under amazing mental strain. Mr. Johnson
is suffering some kind of major breakdown.”
“Well, sure. Anyone would, if
they’d been through what he’s been through.” Sharon says.
“Are you talking about the
gypsy boy?” Dr. Foster asks.
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“He’s been talking about a
curse.” The doctor says. “I think that it’d be smart to keep him here a
few days. I can call a few friends of mine to evaluate him, you know,
see what kind of mental stress he’s under. See if we can help him come
through this without hurting himself anymore.”
Sharon nods in agreement. She
exhales and yawns. Looking at the doctor with concern she asks “What
now?”
“I think the best thing you can
do is go home and get some sleep. Come back later if you like. We’ll
call you if there are any changes.”
“Can I see him now?”
“I’m sorry, but we’ve sedated
Mr. Johnson. To prevent any major infections we have to scrape his chest
and hands. It will also help the healing process. Go home. Come back
later.” Dr. Foster puts his hand on Sharon’s shoulder. “Go home, get
some rest, really.”
Sharon leaves her business card
with the doctor and makes him promise to call her, if anything happens.
***
Greg opens his eyes – blurry.
He realizes that he must be in a hospital room. The sound of a machine
in the corner, humming, fan running, beeping, makes him nervous.
Everything is black, he squints eyes trying to get focus. He sees a red
help button at his side. Reaching up to push it, Greg finds that
his hands are bandaged up. He starts to lift himself up. Immediately
the room fills with ice. His body hardens up, fingers clench into fists.
The boy’s face flashes before him – “The Chill’s” he hears the boy say.
“Help” Greg yells.
“It’s ok, Mr. Johnson. I’m here
in the room with you.” A soft, comforting female voice says.
“Where am-m-m I” Greg asks, his
lips beginning to quiver.
“You’re at Hope’s General
Hospital. You’ve been here for two days.” The woman says.
“Two days. N- n-not p-p-pos-s-sible.
I j-j-just had Sh-sh-sharon b-b-b-ring m-m-me.”
“Mr. Johnson, I’m Dr. Mann, a
psychologist. Dr. William Foster called me and asked me to come meet
you.” The young woman jots down a few notes on a pad of paper. “Is it
alright if I call you Greg?”
“I don’t c-c-care what y-y-you
call m-me; just throw some m-m-more blankets on me p-p-please. Where
is-s-s Shar-r-ron?”
Dr. Mann looks at him for a
moment and then, reluctantly stands up, grabs two hospital blankets from
the closet and carefully places them on top of Greg’s body.
“Better?”
“N-n-not really”
“I’m sorry about that. Sharon
has been in and out checking on you the last two days. She’s a great
woman to have by your side. Greg, you hit a young boy on accident, three
days ago. The next morning you tried to burn yourself to death. Do you
want to talk about it?”
“N-n-no. I want t-t-to g-g-go
home”
“You really hurt yourself,
Greg. You’re lucky to be alive. You’re going to be here for a while
still. At some point, we are going to have to talk about this.”
Dr. Mann says firmly as she tucks the blanket in around his body.
“I hit a b-b-boy who p-p-put a
curse on m-m-me, and n-now I’m freez-z-zing to d-d-death.” Greg stammers
out.
“You have no fever, Greg. Your
body temp is at 98.8 degrees. Normal. Not too hot, not too cold. It is
impossible for you…”
“I’m free-z-z-ing! I’m
free-z-z-zing! I didn’t t-t-try and k-k-kill myself; I was t-t-trying
t-t-to get warm!” Greg yells.
“Help me to understand, Greg. I
just want to be able to help you, but you have to let me.” Dr. Mann
says. She puts her hand on his leg to comfort him. “It’s alright, Greg.
I’m not your enemy.”
“If y-y-you want t-t-to help
m-m-me, d-doctor, get m-m-me warm.” Greg whispers and Dr. Mann sees a
tear fall from his eye and run down his check. She wipes it away. His
cheek is warm; she half expected it to be cold. Her heart does goes out
to him.
Dr. Mann feels his leg shaking
under the covers. She puts her hands softly on his chest. The shivering
is intense and violent. Impossible to fake; then again, who would guzzle
down a ten cup kettle of scalding coffee and then lay on a red hot
electric stove.
She questions how a man, like
Greg Johnson, could have just broken down mentally as he had. Sure he
was under a lot of stress about killing that boy, but others have done
worse and not suffered a mental crash of this magnitude. He’s not
hot; this sensation of freezing has to be in his head, a hallucination.
She thought. But, Greg was known for being O.C.D. He has had the same
schedule for years. Sharon did say, yesterday, that any little change
turned this mild mannered prosecutor into a hyperventilating mess.
Two nurses and a transporter
came into the room.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Mann,” one of
the nurses say, “but it’s time for his… treatment.” She takes a syringe
from her scrub pocket, injects the fluid into Greg’s I.V. His eyes get
heavy almost immediately. The transporter makes sure that his body is
secure in the bed before he steps on the brake release and pushes the
bed out of the room.
Dr. Elizabeth Mann watches them
exit the room. She sits and jots down a few more notes, before leaving.
***
Back in his room, Greg wakes
up, feeling groggy. He looked at his hands and could tell that the
bandages were new. He was pleased that they put him under sedation
before scrapping his charred flesh off. He realized that the only
moment of relief that he has been able to find is while sedated. While
sedated, he was free from all pain. He had no dreams, no thoughts, no
feeling, good or bad, nothing. I never tried to kill myself before,
but now, it’s not looking like a bad option. He thought.
Greg felt as though his body
were turning into an ice cube- a frozen corpse. Nothing that they did
offered relief: the blankets, hot pads, and hot baths. He barely even
noticed the pain of his raw flesh sticking to the gauze and pulling off
when he moved, or his struggle to keep the burnt lining of his throat
from sticking together every time he swallowed. Nothing compared to the
torment of this freezing sensation. Soon, because of the intense
shaking, Greg’s head began to pound. It was like his scull was being
clubbed. I’m going insane. He thought.
That evening he came to the
conclusion that no one believed him. He had to get out of the hospital
if he was going to get warm. Somewhere out there was a machine, a hot
room, or a heating devise that would warm him up. Outside the
hospital there had to be a garage with heating guns, or a gym with a
sauna room. Something has to be out there, Greg thought.
Greg looked at the clock. 6:30
pm. It’s still early enough to find something open out there,
he thought. He knew that there was a family gym just four blocks south
on Hoover Avenue.
Greg waited until the nurse took his dinner
menu before he decided to make his move. He fought to get up on his
feet. He pulled the IV out of his arm and looked down the hallway. He
didn’t see anyone. He started down the hall. Although he tried to make
it to the elevators without being seen, his shivering drew attention.
Greg fell to the ground under
the power of the chills. A nurse sitting at the charge desk stood up and
looked over the counter. Greg fought himself to his feet and slide
against the wall towards the elevators. The nurse quickly grabbed a
radio and alerted security.
“Stop right there, sir!” she
said.
“S-s-stay away!” Greg yelled as
he moved along the hall way. The chills struck him harder, he grabbed
his chest and fell to the ground, but he quickly jumped to his feet
again and threw himself up against the wall. “I have t-t-to get-t-t to
the elev-v-vat-t-tors!”
Four hospital security guards
ran past the nurses’ station towards him. One of the security guards
tackles Greg. They flipped him over and handcuffed him; Greg screamed
“N-n-no, p-p-please I’m g-g-going to die. P-p-please, help me.”
“Chill out, sir. No one’s going
to die, just calm down.” One of the guards told him.
Greg became inconsolable. The
security guards felt no choice but to leave him in restraints. This made
matters worse; Greg had no blankets, and he couldn’t hold himself. He
just shook. The shaking became worse and worse. Suddenly, Greg went into
a seizure. The guards quickly removed the hand cuffs, and tried to lay
him flat on his side. The charge nurse called the doctor.
One of the guards yells, “What
in hell… GET A DOCTOR NOW!” The men move back from Greg’s body. A cloud
of icy mist comes out of his mouth as he fights to breathe. His lips and
mouth turn blue. His eyes sink in; dark blue circles appear around them,
like death. Dr. Foster arrives within fifteen minutes.
“Quick, get him in a bed.” He
says.
Greg shakes too hard to talk
now. He just stares blankly around the room as they all get a hold of
him. The men pick Greg up and started moving him into a room. His body
turns hard like a corpse after weeks of rigor mortis. One of the guards
jumps back away from the body; the other guards loose their grip and
drop Greg to the ground. As his body smacks against the tile floor it
shatters into a million tiny pieces.
Everyone stares in horror.
“He just shattered like glass.”
A guard says.
“Like a sheet of ice.”
“He was never cold. Even when
we carried him; what just happened here, doctor?” The head guard asks,
totally confused.
Dr. Foster kneels down by the
pile of shattered pieces of flesh and bone. He takes a pen out of his
jacket pocket and sifts through the pieces. “I don’t know. I honestly
do not have a clue.”
A shaken female voice says, “It
was the chills.” Everyone turns around. Sharon stands at the nurses’
desk; her hands on her cheeks- eyes welling with tears. “He told us that
he was freezing to death. We didn’t believe him. But he was right. It
was the chills that killed him.”
Everyone one looks back at the
shattered pieces of Greg’s body all over the floor; like tiny chipped
pieces of ice spread across the hospital floor.
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