Excerpted: Zegaajimo

The rash flared when we were camping. “No,” I heard myself say in a hiss. It was the voice I used whenever I burned myself. “Shit.” Then it started to pulse with its own heartbeat and I knew. Goddammit, I knew: The Rotting had me.

We’d been “camping.” That’s what we called fleeing the city: “camping” so we didn’t scare our daughter, Starla. Camping felt safe. It was pretend. Families gave each other a lot of space and the playgrounds had all been taped off and we made our own fun with our paddleboard and swimming. Five weeks away and it found me on our last day at Long Lake, Alberta. Maybe this was Hay Fever. I had Hay Fever years ago before the spread when we were in Australia. Maybe this wasn’t “It”, but then I could feel something unfolding, spreading, reaching with invisible fingers, as we hiked back to our camp. Or was I imagining it? Then my fingers curled on my left hand into a claw. 

“Oh no,” I heard myself whisper. I was infected. I’d seen this: what they called “the bite.” Stage 1: Infection site. I did not want to scare my wife or Starla so I kept busy with camp duties but pulled my mask up: packing up the hammock, folding up the chairs (wearing gloves), tidying up the car for what was supposed to be our drive home. I started dividing things with my good hand: my pack placed outside of the car. I’d need the ax, the kindling. They’d have to burn the tent and everything mine. Maybe I was contagious yesterday? Shit. Shit. Shit! I’d had slow covid for the past eight months and I wasn’t 100 percent.

“Maybe we should mask up,” I said without thinking. Rachel was reading to Starla in a hammock. Maybe it was my tone. Maybe it was me rubbing my tummy with my gimp hand as I felt something ripple under my skin. Then, something like a horde of sandflies began to burrow and tunnel their way under my skin towards my heart before folding themselves into a fist before locking and tightening my muscle fibers, ligaments, sinew and bones together, deepening with something–a pulse–until I felt it in my marrow. I became so suddenly cold. Then numb.  I’d been taken over and I wasn’t me–alone–anymore. “Oh no,” I said again and my leg gave out and I leaned against the car. Fuck. Was the virus spread through the water? Was it floating in the breeze? What if it wasn’t from our mouths? What if it was living in the air now hunting for our eyes and mouths and noses for entry? Was that what everyone had missed? We’d been swimming with other families at what we thought was a safe distance, but we were downstream.

“You okay, Babe?” Rache asked me sitting up–completely alert to what was happening–putting the book down. Then she saw my mask and my hooked hand, and she knew.

Starla pointed to the trees: “Momma. Birds.”

We looked.

Hundreds of crows, ravens and magpies watched me. Only me. Just me. They knew.

“Oh no, honey,” Rachel said and she stood, her eyes wide with fear, putting Starla down. They’d have to leave me. They couldn’t hug or approach me. I was already sporing. That’s what they called it. How long I’ve been sick determined the reach of the spores funneling out of me, reaching out to grab them, too. “Oh no,” Rachel repeated as she covered her mouth and fell back into her hammock and started to weep.

“What is it, Mommy?” Starla asked, looking up to her.

“Daddy’s hurt,” she said.

“It’s okay, Baby,” I said, fumbling to tighten my mask and stepping back. The more I spoke, the more the rotting spread. My lower jaw felt heavy.  “Daddy’s okay. I’m just…hurt,” I managed. Distance, I thought. I needed to distance myself from my family.