The storm continued with a consistency that proved that it wouldn’t budge any time soon. George Carmichael could barely distinguish his lawn under the heavy layer of debris that covered it. The mocking thunder rolled on and seemed to be closer than ever. The frequent flashes of light behind it added a near strobe effect to the warden’s home office forcing an unsettled feeling to rest in the well of his rumbling gut. He could have done without the small lamp that perched on the edge of his desk and it wouldn’t have made any difference on that night. He sat in his leather armchair with his face buried in his hands. George hadn’t eaten at all that day. His stomach just couldn’t take anything solid, especially since the voice from his past had reintroduced itself to his mind.

​

He was in the shower when he had first heard it, watching the soapy water run over his feet and into the small, circular drain. The deep, redneck drawl had pierced his thoughts without warning. Hey Georgie. You gonna save me? Heh Heh. I dare you to try. It had startled him so badly that he almost fell through the thick glass of the shower door, but caught himself in a heavy lean with his hands braced on his knees. At once, the tight mess of scar tissue in the middle of his back began to sting and throb. He had spent the remainder of the day in his office, huddled under the soft down comforter that he had nabbed from the guest bedroom. 

​

His face was drenched with sweat, but he didn’t bother to wipe the tiny beads from his brow. It was useless. He knew that they would only come back. The slight quiver of his lips repeated a steady cycle—intensifying, then tapering off to give the outward appearance that he might be suffering from chills. George didn’t feel cold and as the storm mocked him from outside, He closed his eyes.

​

Do you think I’m a baaad boy Georgie? Well you don’t even know the half of it, but you will. I’m gonna hurt you.

​

“You’re just in my head. You can’t hurt me now. You can’t…” The words came in a feverish whisper that cracked like the voice of a young boy who was beginning his bout with puberty. As the words trailed away, the twang of the voice inside of him continued. 

​

I reckon you think you’re pretty smart with that little degree of yours. I’d snuff you out before you even knew what was happening to you, nigger. Nigger son of a bitch.

​

As a heavy moan welled deep within him, George felt a soft hand on his shoulder. His heart jumped inside of his chest as he leapt from his chair and turned to face whoever was behind him. The breath in his lungs seized and expelled in a strong gust, while his mind feared cardiac arrest. His wife reeled back a couple of steps and held her hands in front of her in a desperate effort to calm him. The crazed look in George’s eyes tore at her until she attempted to scream.

​

“George! It’s me, George. What’s wrong? What’s wrong?!” She placed one hand against his chest as she took a short step closer to steady him.

​

George held the stare for a brief second longer to be sure it was really Nicole, then slumped against the edge of his desk. In a calm, rational voice, he answered her. “Dammit, Nicole. Why did you sneak up on me like that? You know you could have given me a heart attack?”

​

“I’m sorry, George. I was just…,” she paused and brought her free hand to his forehead. “My God, you’re sweating like a pig. I’m calling Dr. Britley.”

​

“No, Nicole. Please, I’m just…”

​

“You’re just sick! I’m going to call him.”

​

George took her hand in his and rubbed its back with his thumb. He mustered what he could of a light smile and, staring with stern sincerity into her concerned eyes, shook his head. “I just need a little bit of down time. That’s all.”

​

Nicole started to argue, but George clasped the other hand around her mouth, pressing firmly against her lips with his wide fingers. 

​

“I’m fine,” his voice came in a whisper. “I’ll just take a break from work. Okay?”

​

Nicole nodded with George’s hand still covering her mouth. Flashing his mouth wider into a quick open-mouthed smile, George pulled his hand away from her lips. 

​

Nicole waited until his hand rested by his side before starting again. “I’m going to make you some soup anyway. You need to eat.”

​

After a long pause, George agreed. He knew it wouldn’t have done him any good to argue. She was the most stubborn woman he had ever met. He considered it a major victory that she had given up on the doctor.

​

“That would be perfect,” he nodded as he sat in his armchair. He watched as his wife left the room with a partially satisfied trot. As the door closed with a click, a broad smile spread across his mouth. Leave it to Nicole to lighten him up whenever he was in one of his moods. She had a definite talent in it. 

​

Turning, he watched the rain fall sideways under the force of the wind. A short, thin branch landed with a dull smack against the window and bounced away at a short angle. Standing up again, George walked to the large bookcase that lined the right wall of his office. Scanning the volumes of books from the different ages of his life, from Twain’s Tom Sawyer to Darwin’s The Origin of Man, he selected one of the newer ones and pulled it from its designated post. The cover was white with black lettering and held in its center a blurred photograph of a man’s face.

​

“A Method to Their Madness by Dr. Joseph Richards.” He read the title aloud and smirked a little as he ran his hand over the thin, laminated cover. “Hope it’s a good one."

​

As he returned to his chair, he flipped the book open and turned to the first page. Just before he sat down, a massive crack of thunder echoed from the sky and caused the muscles in his neck to ripple and tense with the sudden introduction of the loud, unnerving shock. 

​

How you like this storm, Georgie? I just love it. They always come in with a bang, destroy as much as they can, and then leave us in silence. Whenever you see a storm coming, look for me. I’ll be coming right behind it.

​

*            *            *

​

Joe sat up in bed as his chest’s long heave brought him to full consciousness. Running a sweat drenched palm through his hair, he made every effort to calm himself. It was only a dream, nothing that could physically hurt him. To his right, Elaine stirred under the thin covers and fell still. He could hardly believe that his violent jolt hadn’t roused her, though she had always been a heavier sleeper than him. The house could fall away underneath her and she would not wake, but a brief creak of a board would destroy any hopes for his peaceful rest. Turning, he pulled the hair from the side of her face and tucked it lightly behind her ear. He leaned over her and pecked the curve of her neck at the place where it met her chin with the very tips of his puckered lips. In her sleep, she smiled.

​

Joe let a grin touch his own face and stood from the bed. The storm outside had calmed, but only a little bit. The thunder growled from the heavens in low rumbles, still warning the town that the worst was yet to come and the quick flashes of electric light remained among the clouds, refusing to strike at the land for the time being. The rain drummed its steady downpour over the terrain. Joe imagined it was far from being over. 

​

Stooping over his briefcase, Joe picked up his small, black portable radio and flicked it on with the hard nail of his thumb. As he took a seat at the table, he could hear Elton John singing from the headset. Pulling the headphones onto his head, he recognized the song as Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and found that it was pretty much over. As the last bars faded to nothing, Joe flipped open Grady’s file for what seemed to be the hundredth time. With his ears filled with radio commercials, he came to a stop at a short series of photos in the back of the file. Their procedural vision and angle showed a bland truth in the victim’s torn and lifeless bodies. They weren’t exactly the remedy he was looking for after being flung from the depths of a nightmare. Each of the photos captured image after image of dead soldiers and a few dead villagers from the incident in Africa. It was hard to imagine a single man causing such an atrocity. The last of the pictures disturbed Joe the most. It was a picture of Grady’s commanding officer with his severed head lying beside him on the ground. The eyes were still open in blank accusation of their killer and the mouth turned slightly away from its lips to form a painful sneer. As Joe looked harder at the bodiless head, he could have sworn the face was smiling at him. 

​

The thick shroud of sleep touched his eyes as the disc jockey came back on the air to announce that he would be playing forty minutes of non-stop classic rock. His voice maintained a smooth drone that lulled Joe closer to falling back to sleep. Joe’s head drifted lower as his eyes grew heavy and threatened to toss him back into unwanted dreams. As his surroundings faded, a slow smooth melody drifted to his ears and shocked him straight up in his chair. Joe snapped his eyes shut and pressed his palms deep into his temples. There was no escape from the song that played in the recesses of his head. 

​

There is a house in New Orleans

​

“Please God. Don’t do this to me,” Joe whimpered as he squeezed harder at the sides of his head. 

​

They call the Rising Sun

​

Fumbling with the compact radio, he turned the tuner dial to any other station. He would have been satisfied with anything but that song. In the long procession of the radio’s range, he found only one song available. 

​

And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy

​

He ripped the headset from his ears and pitched the portable radio across the room. The small, plastic box shattered into several pieces against the wall to expose its entrails of wires on the floor. Joe pulled his hands from his skull and let a relieved sigh escape into the night air. As he folded his arms on the table and set his face between them, a deep voice echoed inside of him with a piercing hiss. 

​

And God I know I’m one

​

A nasty clap of thunder crashed overhead and shattered the night as it reverberated off of the hotel and its surrounding trees. Joe’s attention shifted to the world outside as he caught, in the corner of his eye, the top of one of the tall trees shift and fall over. He shuddered with a series of small spasms and breathed in short, broken breaths. It was hard to believe he was falling apart. 

​

Elaine stirred in the bed behind him. It amazed Joe that she was still asleep after the loud smash of his radio against the wall and the storm’s quick tantrum. He stared at her as she drew her knees to her chest and returned to her slow, deep breaths. Joe was jealous of her sleep. He would have given anything to be back there, but the nightmares kept him at a safe distance. 

​

“Joe.”

​

The whisper floated soft in the air and Joe wondered if he had heard it at all. For all he could tell anymore, it was just another part of his imagination. He shifted to the left to get a better view of his wife’s face. She was still asleep, but he knew it had been her voice he had heard. Her lips pursed as she drew a long breath. As she exhaled, a quiet moan carried her voice into the room. “Joe.”

​

“Laney?” He doubted she would be able to hear him, but something inside of him forced him to try. 

​

“Joe. I am the plague, Joe.” Her voice was sensual. The moan that brought it lacked the slightest hint of fear. She wasn’t having a bad dream as far as Joe could tell, though her words shook him hard.

​

“Laney?!” Joe was frantic now. He reached the bed in two long strides and ripped the sheets from his wife. Staring at her body, naked from the waist up, he realized that she was shivering. He clenched his hands around her shoulders and shook her. She remained still at first, but, a moment later, sat straight up in the bed. Her eyes rolled back into her skull, causing the eyelids around them to twitch viciously. The sea of white in her glare, accompanied by the distorted convulsions of her lip, dug into Joe’s mind. She was not his wife, at least, not how he knew her. Her twisted face was monstrous and inhuman. He could not bear to see anymore of it. His right leg came from underneath him and he toppled backward to collide against the small, circular table in the center of the room. His back throbbed at his shoulder blades where it had met the hardwood edge and Joe remained still to calm it.

 

As he lay on the floor, he heard Elaine grumble above him in a sick, deep voice. 

​

“I am the plague!”

​

*            *            *

​

Joe’s eyes shot open in the dark. Frequent cracks of thunder shouted from the sky outside as he raised his head enough to see Elaine nestled against his chest and sighing. Her face was precious and sweet with the soft sights of the places her dreams held her. She smiled lightly and pushed her face deeper into the slight muscles of his chest. Relieved as he was that it had been a dream, the feelings of disorientation forced his stomach to twist inside of him.

​

Careful not to wake his wife, he pulled her up and away from his body, releasing her softly on her side of the bed. She didn’t stir much, but to curl away from him with her face now settled on her pillow. Pushing the covers aside, Joe stood and let a silent yawn stretch his mouth. The clock beside the bed, in its dim, red glow, read two o’clock.

​

He tiptoed to the bathroom and made sure to close the door behind him before switching the light on. The sudden brightness caused him to squint as he gazed into the mirror in front of him. His eyes were forming blue rings under their lids and his face was marked with the lines from his pillow case. 

​

“What a sad sight you are,” he whispered to himself while he turned on the sink’s cold water. Cupping his hands under the flowing stream, he splashed it on his face and neck. He looked back to his reflection as he let the excess drops roll over his face to fall away from his chin. Exhaling sharply, he patted the wet splotches of skin with one of the white hand towels and replaced it to the rack on his right. 

​

Stepping to the toilet, the thick nausea twisted inside of him again. With his face distorted, his legs gave beneath him and almost sent him headfirst into the side of the large porcelain chair. Offering a quick movement of his arms, he caught himself on the toilet’s rim and nearly yelped out loud with the pressure to his healing hand. He fell on his knees and stared into the calm, placid water in the bottom of the wide basin. The sickness was about to settle when the thick, grating sound of bending metal returned to his mind. Within it, as always, it carried a voice. 

​

I am the plague, Joe.

​

He shook his head. The hiss was gone, but its echo continued sending another wave of nausea through his head and stomach. Closing his eyes, Joe clenched his fists around the porcelain rim and winced as the dull remnants of pain ached in his hand. Soon after that, he threw up.