A Pond & A Plague

It clung to his lungs like sticky tar. He didn’t know how he got it, but it wouldn’t go away.

He thought it would never happen to him, being mostly isolated from the world. The only way in or out of his acreage in the mountains was to traverse across the frozen waters of the marigold-rimmed pond, and the last interaction he had was with a street-food vendor more than a fortnight ago… But both of them had been wearing masks, and he was sure he washed his hands before eating.

Or was he?

The plague had been around so long, and his interaction so miniscule, that he’d forget to don a mask half the time he visited the nearest village. It was foolish, but he couldn’t help it. Either he forgot or he didn't care. Nobody was sick near here for ages, right? Those were stories from faraway places…

Was the vendor sick? A carrier that didn’t show it?

The chills hadn’t started. That was a good sign, right? No chills meant maybe it was just a passing irritation. He could still taste and he thought he could still smell, though he was beginning to doubt his senses.

Was that chest pain there before?

Branson went into a sudden fit of harsh coughs. He thought he tasted blood.

Fear suddenly shot through him like a shard of ice, strangling his veins. His eyes darted to his cloak, then to his boom stick, lingering on it for an uncomfortably long time.

He’d heard the horror stories of The Big Sneeze. No way in the seven hells was he going out that way.

Perhaps it was nothing…

He could feel something creeping, crawling, itching up his throat. He held it down. He didn’t want it to come out. He wouldn’t let himself.

Taking a swig of hot lemon and honey tea, he swallowed hard. It was now painful to drink. That was new.

His ears became hot and throbbed painfully, and his eyes once more flickered over to his boom stick.

In a flurry, he leapt from his chair by the fire, grabbed his things and fled down the hill to town in a panic.

The cold was biting, but the sensation soon disappeared as he ran to find his horse. The skin round the rim of his collar began to prickle, then became stifling and clammy.

She was nowhere to be seen.

“What the fek… Daisy?”

Branson whistled with both fingers. “Come ‘ere girl! Come…” his coughing started again, doubling himself over. He hocked and spit on the snowy grounds, disturbing the white with sickly green phlegm.

No… not like this.

He banged on his chest hard enough to bruise just for some relief, took one last look at the log cabin he’d built years earlier to escape the outside world, somewhere safe with her, then stumbled down the hill.

Past the woods, he’d hunt for wild game with his horse bow. Past the long forgotten fields now overgrown with creeping kudzu vines. Past the old giant wombat tunnels she would crawl through, playing hide and seek, laughing so happily.

His eyes began to water and go out of focus. He closed them for a moment and tried to shake it off. The sunlight burned when it didn’t before. His head felt like a thousand tiny people had taken turns thwacking his nose.

His breath came in wheezes from the strain of his journey, his balance for the first time in his life now uncertain.

No… I’m not ready.

“Come on, you sonnova bitch!”

Branson’s boots slammed the earth, kicking up dirt and snow as he pushed himself further. Up ahead, he could see the clearing of the pond, its waters turned to solid ice, the banks covered in frosted marigolds.

As he made it up and over the lip of the pond, brushing through the vegetation on the rim, he took a moment to test the surface. Outside the wintertime, the still, murky waters are shallow enough to wade through on horseback, but too deep to walk. The surface looked solid, but it was nearing spring.

His chest tightened, his breathing came in heavy gasps. Now was not the time to stop.

With one foot in front of the other, he began his way across the stretch of ice. Branson exhaled. It was only a good seventy paces across, then a simple few miles into town where he could get some help.

Ten steps in. His mind wandered back to her, to Suraya.

Twenty steps in. Was that her sweet voice singing on the wind..?

Thirty steps in. If he could go back, change his choices, do something differently…

Forty - almost there. He’d help her plant marigolds, he’d listen, he’d care, he’d take the vaccine.

Fifty.

A loud cracking sound sprang out from all around him. With a sickening crunch, a frightened gasp and a splash, Branson disappeared from view.

Thump. Thump. Thump. A muffled heartbeat on the frozen marigold pond.

Now as beautiful a grave as any…