Member-only story
A New Appetite
“You look like hell!” Clara glared at me like it was my fault. “Go home.”
“I’ve got to finish the MacGregor file or Rigel will have my hide,” I croaked out, my voice barely audible.
“Go home. I’ll get Sean to do it. He’s got nothing better to do, I’m sure. You’ll be no good to MacGregor or anyone else, if you croak on us. Besides, none of us want to get whatever it is you’ve got,” and she pulled the cowl neck of her sweater over her mouth as she said it.
I reluctantly agreed, and gathered my coat and hat and headed for the door. As I walked through the open office, someone called out, “Dead man walking,” followed by a few chuckles. At the front door, Clarence, the receptionist, said, “Get well, Anthony. I hope you feel better.” He was always a kind heart.
Everything after that is blurry in my memory — the walk to the subway, the ride home, the struggle up the hill to my apartment building, and the ride up the ancient lift to the 5th floor. Delirium set in, fever dreams, wild fancies, bizarre visitations, all the product, no doubt, of a very high temperature.
On what proved to be the fourth day, I was pulled from my bed, drenched in sweat, my clothes, the very ones I had worn to the office that day, clinging damply to my body. Someone was pounding on my door and yelling. At first it was part of my dream, the…
