“Most dangerous is that temptation that doth
goad us on to sin in loving virtue.”
~ William Shakespeare ~
Measure for Measure, Act II, Scene II

SUBWAY

Calderon knew he was dying as he shoved the token in the slot before stumbling through the turnstile and down the steps to the subway platform. The rumble of the train, even though muffled by the clotted blood in his ears, sent a spear of searing pain shooting through his skull.

Calderon braced his head with both hands until the train finally came to a stop, its doors sliding open with a hiss. He wasn’t sure how long his legs would hold him. The raging 105-degree fever seemed to be melting his bones into what felt like a slurry of molten marrow. He snatched a gulp of air, and it howled through his airways like wind in a chimney.

Get on the train. Move. Get on the train.

Laboring, Calderon trapped himself in the flow of boarding passengers, their bodies pushing him along.

There were no seats available, only a spot for his hand to grip a pole. Just as he wrapped his fingers around it, a deep croupy cough clutched up in his chest. With his free hand, he covered his lips with a handkerchief, and the coppery taste of blood-streaked mucous sprayed the inside of his mouth. The flecks of phlegm bloomed like miniature scarlet geraniums, seeping through the threads of the white cloth.

The train lurched, and Calderon rocked sideways, bumping a young man with an earphone crammed in his ear and an iPod clipped to his belt.

“What the——” The young guy stared at the handkerchief. He let go of the pole and stepped back. “What’s the matter with you, man?”

Like dominos, the passengers’ attention turned to focus on Calderon. They retreated from him, crowding into the opposite ends of the subway car.

“Oh, my God,” a woman said, using her hands like a surgical mask.

Calderon wiped his face, breaking loose the crusts of dried blood and spittle from the corners of his mouth. He didn’t blame the passengers for staring or for feeling disgust alongside their horror. They had good reason.

His eyes burned and his skin hurt to touch. The five ibuprofen tablets he choked down an hour ago hadn’t seemed to dent the pain or the fever. Probably made the bleeding worse. He felt a warm, thick trickle drip from his nose and again heard gasps. He wiped away the blood with the back of his hand, smearing it across his cheek.

The train pulled into the next station, and all the passengers except Calderon fought their way through the open doors.

The first incoming passenger froze in the doorway before backing out and stretching his arms like a gate. “Stop!” he yelled. “Nobody get on the train.”

“What’s going on?” a man said, forcing his way past. “Get outta my way.” But then, as his eyes landed on the sole occupant of the car, he bolted back. “Holy shit.”

The doors slid closed, and Calderon watched the faces staring at him through the window. In a moment the train was in the darkness of the tunnel, and he closed his eyes. He wheezed a shallow breath and again was overcome by a strangling cough. He tried to stifle it. Over the last twenty-four hours he had learned that each time he coughed it irritated his airways even more, bringing about a fit of uncontrollable spasmodic hacking. He kept his mouth closed, coughing as if in a theater and not wanting to disturb anyone. His cheeks flared with the gush of air from his lungs, but the force behind the cough burst through. A jet of blood and mucous spewed out, splattering the pole, and a fine pink cloud floated in the air. After several minutes his lungs rested. Time was running out.

The next stop would be his last. He was almost there. This time when the doors opened, Calderon nearly fell out onto the platform. He saw the expressions of those who looked at him in total revulsion. He lowered his head and kept his eyes cast on the concrete. Halfway up the stairs, he grabbed the railing, doubting he could go on. He stopped and propped his side against the wall for a moment before continuing to the sidewalk.

The fever had him shivering, and he thought about what a paradox that was. His body was burning up and what he felt, except for the scorching in his eyes, was a bottomless chill.

Only half a block to go.

He approached the front entrance to his final destination.

The crowd on the street seemed to part like the Red Sea when God divided it to save the Israelites from the Egyptians. But he knew this was not the work of God. It was the result of the terror that took hold of the pedestrians at the sight of a nearly fleshless skeleton of a man whose eye sockets were soot black and every orifice leaked blood and body fluids.

Calderon pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby of the Satellite News Network. Then all his remaining strength caved in and his knees buckled. He collapsed face down on the marble floor.

An SNN security officer was first at his side. Squatting, he pressed the button on his shoulder-mounted mic and said, “Code red. Dial nine-one-one.” Slowly, he maneuvered Calderon onto his side. “Jesus Christ!” He reared back at the sight.

Calderon opened one eye. He felt the strings of mucous that glued his lips together, stretch as he spoke.

“Cotten Stone. I must speak to Cotten Stone.”

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Copyright © 2005-2010 Lynn Sholes & Joe Moore and Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide, Ltd.