I woke up that morning on the couch, hangover-free, as always, only mildly buzzing. Did I really...half a bottle, gone. My husband, gone to work. I darted a look at the phone. Hell, let'em fire me. It's not like I really need to work, after all. I looked at the envelope on the table. "Ryan Richardson" was living in the lovely Northeast. I could find his house in a flash, and pump him for the info I needed. After all, I was feeling a little violent this morning.
His place was one of those small, two bed-room dwellings usually favored by elderly couples who've taken to separate beds. I looked at it with a touch of disgust--why not just get a bloody apartment? You could call it a house--but why? Homes were for families--and--
Something seemed wrong as I got out of the car and walked up to the door. It was oddly quiet, there was no sound of t.v. or radio. I shook the thought off, and reached for the doorbell.
Nothing.
I knocked.
Nothing again.
Feeling like an idiot, I tried the door. It was open, and I let myself in, expecting at any moment to be reminded that I was an unwelcome guest. But even within, I was struck by the silence.
Was there no one here? I wondered. Who is the doofus who lives in Philly and doesn't think to keep his door locked when he isn't home? I wandered through the house.
"Richardson?"
Nothing. I noted the history books he had lining his shelves, and the way the place was furnished, spartan-scholar. And then, I reached the bedroom. I felt queer, as if I was sensing another Immortal, but that couldn't be. I opened the bedroom door, and was immediately shocked by the sight--
He was dead. Of that there could be no question. No soul could be in that condition and live. I came closer, unafraid, but trembling all the same. The skin from his extremities--surrounding his eyelids, fingernails, his nostrils, eaten. The remaining flesh seemed eaten from the inside. I went through the diseases I knew-- Leprosy. Ebola. Necrotising fascitis. Not a one of them did exactly this, but I didn't have to be Quincy to know what I was looking at.
He had fallen victim to my virus. I had never seen a human suffer these consequences--and I never wanted to. I didn't even want to consider how--it dawned on me that this was now officially a hot zone, and I didn't know what proceedure to follow:
Notify the Center for Infectious diseases and/or FEMA and inform them that their worst nightmare had become a reality?
Or take matters into my own hands?
Dazed, I ran to the bathroom. I scrubbed my hands, not as if I feared contamination, but fearing I would spread it. And as the truth dawned on me, I felt sicker and sicker. I retched. I admit it.
I still had some small business to tend to. I looked about for something, anything, that would lead me to what I wanted--the truth. The story. The head of Duncan MacLeod, if need be. I found some notebooks, and a lap-top, and I...appropriated them. And then I knew how to deal with this little set-back.
These houses all had gas water-heaters. A little this, a little that, a little Anarchist's Cookbook.
I was four blocks away when the house exploded into flames.
Posted on May 14, 1999, 7:34 PM from IP address 216.164.249.243