The Horror Library - The Best in Horror Fiction

H19N1
By M. Louis Dixon

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"Please stop coughing. Please oh please oh plase."

But he didn't.

Even through his thick bedroom door, each burst of coughing vibrated off my eardrums. I'd already given him twice the dosage recommended on the cough syrup label, but it didn't make the slightest bit of difference.

I squinted over at the illuminated numbers of the clock radio, but couldn't make them out. I reached out and patted across the surface of the nightstand. My fingers struck the eyeglasses instead of trapping them, they scooted away, and I heard them clatter to the floor.

"Oh great," I said.

With a groan, I pulled myself erect and increased my blind search, this time for the light switch imbedded in the lamp's electric cord. More items scurried from my groping fingers. A coin panged off the hardwood floor and began a lazy roll beneath the bed. As my fingers found the switch, the wobbly metallic thrum of the wayward coin sounded like a drum roll before an amazing feat. With a click at my fingertips, a rat-a-tat-tat and ta-dah from beneath the bed, light flooded my eyes with unbearable brightness.

Disoriented from the cusp of true sleep, my brain threw forth an attempt to interpret reality from thought: Momentarily, I stood on a stage, blinded by a brilliant spotlight. The audience was silent and disapproving. From the back of the theater, a lone croupy cough was my only applause. A man's figure stood in the darkness of stage right; he waited to take my place.

I blinked, shielded my eyes and sat up on the edge of the bed. The theater was gone. Nothing from the flash of dream remained except the continued coughing from the room down the hall.

I gingerly placed my feet onto the floor, careful not to step on my glasses. As I retrieved them, my knees popped on the way down and crackled on the way up. I checked the time. The numbers were clearer now but still slightly blurred from my sleep hungry eyes. The digital display jumped from 4:19 to 4:20.

"Shit." I had to be up in a few hours, and I'd hardly slept at all.

I looked over to the other side of the bed. Empty. The covers still smooth and undisturbed. Ten months since Allie had been gone, and I still kept to my half.

Joshua's cough was a dry bark. Each hack a rhythmic punch. He moaned and doubled his efforts. Soon he was gagging between desperate gasps for breath.

I yawned and massaged my temples.

"Daddy." His voice sounded pinched between his abused vocal cords.

A flash of anger burnt away the web of lethargy.

I didn't want to have kids. I told her I was too old to be a father. Allie was young, beautiful and persistent. I loved her more than my life's work. She promised me the child would be my legacy—a part of me that would continue on into infinity. Looking into her eyes, I could not deny her the chance at motherhood.

Now I was alone. Frustrated. Resentful.

Then he began to cry. His weak sobs choked off into new fits of coughing. My anger turned to guilt and shame. How could I be so selfish? How could I feel such… hatred? It wasn't his fault. I'm the one to blame. Me… Me and his mother.

I got up and walked down the hallway to his room. Each step extracting groans and complaints from the floorboards. I pressed my face to the window and looked inside, but it was too dark to see any details. I flipped the switch on the wall and his room flooded with flickering light as the overhead fluorescents began to warm up. Joshua scowled and plunged his face into the pillow. His thin four-year-old back shuddered with each muffled cough buried in the depths of the down filled pillow. Dark curly hair, almost the polar opposite of his mother's and my own, fanned out about his head.

The intercom was cool on my fingertips. I pushed the button. "Hey buddy. Not feeling any better huh?"

His only response was a continued dull hacking that escaped harshly when he looked at me. Dark brows knotted above scrunched eyes. He shook his head in negation while tears streamed down his face. Finally catching his breath, he began to sob.

"I know, I know," I said. "I'm going to get something that'll work better than that stupid ol' cough syrup."

It had gotten worse so fast, quicker than I'd expected.

I went into the bathroom and pulled open the medicine cabinet. A row of vials were scattered on the top shelf. Standing on tiptoes, I peered closely to read their labels. My life's work was displayed in each vial. I thrilled a bit to see them aligned so.

The H1N1 was my museum piece; the recreation of the 1918 Spanish influenza, it was a project that took more than a decade to complete and less than ten minutes to smuggle out of the lab. The H5N1 avian influenza held us in awe for the last couple of years; its almost sentient strives of mutation kept it bounding forward into more virulent strains. It was the H19N1 that made me tremble. My child… my true child.

The hemagglutinin subtype was discovered in an isolated niche deep in the Amazon rainforest. Found in a small community of snakes that bore rudimentary feathers about their necks; they'd been named Quetzalcoatl after the Aztec mythological beast of similar description. From these hidden creatures we extracted this, most amazing, glycoprotein, and H19N1 was born. Where H5N1 had seemed almost conscious in its mutation, H19N1 was outright deliberate. Somebody at the World Health Organization had compared the H5N1 to a category 5 hurricane. If that was true, then Quetzalcoatl influenza was somewhere in the category 7 or 8 region. I'm sure that hurricanes don't go that high, but this virus does.

My research created the cure for avian influenza.

The current administration felt it was important to boost the public relations and arranged a press conference. They were cold in their politeness when they chose my assistant to address the media. The young Dr. William Tartikoff, dark haired, handsome and tall, found it easy to accept the accolades. The people adored him, and be damned the truth.

I reached past all these and grabbed the last vial—Codeine.

From the left drawer, underneath a pack of disposable plastic razors, I retrieved a 3 cc syringe with an 18 Gauge, X3 point, needle sealed in a hermetic wrapper. I pulled down my lab coat from its hook on the back of the bathroom door and put it on. The N95 mask rattled when I brushed against it. I placed the items in one of the pockets. One last look about and I added a bottle of alcohol and handful of cotton balls to my collection. I reached for the mask but decided against it. What did it matter now? Today was the day of the wedding. Everything was happening now. I pulled the door open, the mask clicked softly against the tiled wall as I stepped into the hallway.

I unlocked Joshua's door and entered the room. A brief whoosh of air pushed me from behind as I entered. My chest felt tight as I walked to his bedside, and I realized, I'd been holding my breath. The room was musky with fever. As I sat, the disturbance of my weight sent him into another bout of coughing. I averted my face and waited for him to quiet down.

I felt like a spectator as my hands moved with a knowledge that was written in their nerves; each performed mechanically as they went about their task of prepping and administering the injection. The effect was rapid and comforting. Joshua coughed a couple more feeble and weak grunts but then rolled over and drifted off to sleep. I smoothed back his hair and pulled the blanket up under his chin. My heart sank a little bit when I noticed the flecks of blood on his pillow case. Tiny little tracks of red that spelled out death from an organism on the threshold of life. His infection was progressing more rapidly then I'd anticipated. Usually pulmonary exsanguination didn't begin to occur until day four or five. It signified the beginning of the final stage before expiration. I hoped that the Codeine would postpone the inevitable for at least another twenty-four hours.

"Today's your mother's wedding, and you don't want to miss that, do you?" He didn't answer. His breath wheezed as his chest rose and fell.

I thought of his question from the day before. "How come you keep calling me buddy? You used to always call me Junior."

I'd looked at him and nodded, but I didn't answer his question. Some things are just too complicated to explain to a four-year-old. How do you tell him that his mother only married you to get your Nobel Prize seed? To breed with you like you were some kind of champion stallion. That she'd already had another, younger lover. How she'd thrown that in your face the day she left you, but you wouldn't believe her. How you fought her for custody of a child you weren't even sure you wanted to begin with. How, after using your personal contacts at the lab, you found out that child wasn't your blood after all. No child. No son. No… legacy. How do you explain the ruin of a dream you didn't even know you'd had until it was ripped from you?

You don't.

You turn to your life's work for solace. You turn to the only thing that makes sense.

"I told your mother that I'd forgiven her… in a way, I have. I told her that I had a gift for her wedding day. I said that I would no longer contest the custody, and I was giving her my only child."

I leaned in close and kissed his sweat soaked black curls.

"When you see her, you make sure to give her a big hug and a kiss. Kiss her on the lips for me."

I moved within an inch of his open mouth. His breath was warm and moist. I inhaled deeply.

"Give her the gift of my life's work. My legacy."