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Viral Misery
by Puca Dentata
FEEDBACK: ScarySepticCat@home.com
You want it, email me. Or send one of those pigeons
with the note on the leg. That would be cool.
RATING: Not Nice At All.
LEGAL: Joss, WB, and Mutant Enemy are the owners of Oz.
IS THERE A PLOT?: Oz shows up on Giles' doorstep, not well. Not well
at all.
Viral Misery
*********
He shows up on my doorstep almost exactly like he did the last time he
was here.
Like some bewitchment of space. One moment I am alone, the next I'm
not.
However, while his posture is still outwardly courteous and contained,
his eyes are restless--drifting towards an opposite truth. From there
my eyes are drawn to a minute twitching at the corner of his chapped
mouth, and further down to where his hands are clenched just a little
to tightly.
"Oz."
He nods, and replies with his requisite "Hey", but his voice is parched
sounding, raspy. He swallows the word back down before it has been
properly finished, and tries to spit it back up in a cough.
"Are you thirsty? The t-trip here must have been long. When did you get
here?"
He shakes his head and continues to lean against the door. "No water.
Please. Thanks anyways. I-I came directly here. "
I slide my glasses off and frown at him.
"What's wrong, Oz? You look ill."
He nods again, evading my questioning look. He walks slowly into the
room, as if the motion causes him dizziness. He sits--no, collapses--
into the first chair he reaches. Leans back and coughs again, licking
at his dry lips as an afterthought. His tongue looks swollen, and
responds sluggishly as he tugs it back into his mouth. It doesn't seem
to have helped much.
"Yeah.....I'm sick. I didn't know where else to go, Giles. I-I think
it's magic."
I study him closely, noting every off-setting aspect to his haggard
appearance. "When did these, ah, symptoms first appear?" I cross over
to his side so that I can feel his forehead. He flinches a bit, but
allows me to to check his temperature.
I can feel him shrug beneath my hand, and I get the idea that he is
relying on gestures not because off a loathing to talk, but of
necessity. He appears to be having trouble with his speech, and his
thick, grating voice is further testament to that. Plus, he is running
quite a high fever.
Already, my mind's roaming through its motley catalogue of curses and
demon-inflicted ailments.
"What makes you think this might be magic, Oz?"
Oz looks up at me, his eyes dilated.
He clears his throat again, and speaks very slowly to get the words out
as crisply as his tongue will allow. "Because I don't know what else it
could be. I have never had a flu like this before. It has to be magic.
Help me?"
His throat clenches again, and he gasps a little for breath, shivering.
He looks sickly to the point of passing out. I grab him by his forearms
to help hoist him to his feet. I try to hide the pitying sympathy I'm
feeling from leaking out. I've a feeling that it would bother Oz to
see it.
"Sleep. You need to sleep, and I'll start looking through my books."
Any questioning can be saved for later, after he is rested. To watch
him trying to answer in his present state is torture--for both of us.
He looks at me, relieved. "So you'll help?"
"Yes", I promise not only him but myself as well.
*********
I awake, still seated at my desk, to the sounds of yelling and thrown
objects issuing from my kitchen.
I fumble for my glasses--having taken them off for a moment's rest that
appears to have lasted hours--and make my way to the kitchen, still
half asleep and groggy.
I'm met by the sight of Oz destroying my kitchen in some sort of rage.
He's shirtless and I can see by the way his chest is heaving that he's
hyperventilating. He is pale, so very pale, but his face is flushed.
Whether with fever or anger, I can't tell.
I am frozen there momentarily, refusing to believe what my eyes are
telling me is happening. That Oz--little quiet, calm Oz--is shrieking
and smashing plates. Throwing food from the open fridge against walls
and to the floor. Stomping at the mess like--like Rumpelstilsten in the
fairy tale.
"Oz."
I say it loudly, with as much authority as I can muster through the
shock and sleep still gripping at my head--perhaps I'm dreaming?
He doesn't appear to hear me, simply continues to destroy my glass
dishes and smear my food around the floor. He throws opens a cupboard
door so hard it chips the paint, and reaches in to scoop all the jars
and boxes onto the floor. Salt is thrown across the room in a white
comet, raining down with a miniature hail sound. My jars of seasoning
are stomped upon until the plastic splinters, the leaves and powders
mixing with crushed vegetables and melting vanilla ice cream. My
linoleum looks like an abstract painting done by a chef.
I slowly begin to approach him, for I haven't the slightest clue what's
going on in his mind and body. My search last night turned up nothing.
I hold my hands out to show they are empty, and continue to inch
forward cautiously into the Oz whirlwind.
He sees me, and stumbles backwards, over the piles of slippery food
coating the floor.
"Oz, can you hear me? I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to know
what is wrong." I say this as if talking to a sociopath holding a
hostage. The kitchen and food appears to be the hostage here, though if
was a person I strongly suspect it would be leaving the house in a body
bag.
Oz bares his teeth at me, spittle coating the surface. Other than that,
he appears to be lost somewhere inside where he doesn't understand me.
Could it be the wolf?
"Oz....I don't want to hu---"
He interrupts me with childish squalling, throwing his arms up to pound
at the cabinets beside his head. "I want! I want to, but I can't!
Why?!?! No nonono!"
This is the first sign I have seen that he's somewhat able to be
reasoned with. As chilling as it is, it affords me some hope.
"Oz, tell me what's wrong. How can I help?" I start to inch forward
again, making sure my empty hands are within his wild-eyed view.
"I'm fucking THIRSTY, you asshole!" He screams this at me so loudly
that his already reedy voice is splintered until nothing's left but the
meaning formed by his lips.
I'm taken aback, to say the least. Even his wolf would not....not use
such strong words....in my presence. Something else is at work here.
He has fallen to his knees, the caked food spreading around him in an
explosion of smells and colors. He looks likes a planet in the center
of the sudden silence, the ruined things surrounding him like
satellites.
I'm twisted from my reverie by wheezing. Oz has pulled into a fetal
position, mindless of the goop and glass shards attaching themselves to
his body and hair. He's panting as if he is about to vomit. He's trying
to talk between the heaving breaths, I realize, and I rush forward
oblivious to the danger.
All I see before me suddenly is a very young man in a great amount of
pain.
"Giles....Gi-Giles....h-h-elp....hurts!" I have to lean down to his
face to hear this, and I suddenly can smell him. Curdled. The boy
hasn't bathed in days, if my nose is telling me the truth. How must it
smell to him, with his enhanced senses?
Not good, not good signs here at all.
**********
Still nothing from the books; when a clean Oz enters from the direction
of the bathroom he looks at me in such a way that I know he knows.
"Sit down, Oz."
He does, though it is in the chair farthest from my desk.
There are all these questions I have for him, none of them very tactful
or easy to ask. What is he feeling? Why come here? Why me?
I take the easy route, and stick to questions that are needed to make
any headway in this enigma. Oz is calm now, eerily so in the wake of
the kitchen outburst. If I hadn't seen it, I would have scoffed at the
person who told me such a tale. Hell, I saw it and and still trying to
make it seem less than it was. Cleaning the kitchen not only to remove
the ruined stuff for sanitary and normal reasons. Also doing it so that
I can pretend it wasn't nearly as bad as it was. It's hard to lie to
one's self when the truth's right in front of you, the shards crunching
under your heels and dripping from the walls in yolky streaks.
What I can piece together from Oz tells me is this; he started to feel
ill two weeks ago. Started with the normal flu-like ailments,
progressed to the point he is now. To think of him driving in this
condition...fevered, weak, uncooperative muscles...it's terrifying.
For that reason, I purposely do not ask him how far he had to come.
Once again, I can tell myself it was an hour drive until faced with
otherwise.
The will he must have, though. Even an hour's drive seems humanly
impossible. Even if he's a werewolf, his body is still mortal...still
small. Not much there for the virus to conquer.
Bloody hell.
"Why don't you drink if you are thirsty, Oz? Do you vomit?"
This is the closest I've come to mentioning the earlier events of the
day. This is the closest I will come. But I need to ask this question
for his own sake...not my own curiosity. No, certainly not that.
Oz shakes his head, and that mask of his cracks enough to see that
tears are just beneath the surface. Then the shift is gone, covered by
his laconic armor. "Can't"
I rise and go into the kitchen. This is stupid, if he doesn't get
fluids in his system nothing I can do will help. Could it be a spell
that makes him not able to drink? I don't know. But it would be twisted
enough to entertain several types of demon.
I return and hold the glass out to him.
His eyes widen, and suddenly he is tilting his head away uncontrollably
to look at the ceiling. His throat spasms once; twice, and he starts to
drool. Oz seems to be waging a battle with himself, trying to control a
body that is working independently of the mind. A phobia of the water,
if I didn't know better.
"Drink!" I sit down next to him, even though the chair isn't large
enough for this. Sliding my arm around him, I pull him into a more
upright position, though he listlessly struggles a bit.
"You NEED to drink, Oz." He shuts his eyes, but nods. He is shaking
now, a heated buzzing I can feel along my side and through the arm
supporting him.
Not positive whether he can manage the glass, I try to help him. I try
not to look too closely at his face. Instead, I focus on his mouth with
its drool still trickling from the corners. I tilt the glass near his
mouth, urging him to open his lips so that I can pour some water in.
He slowly does, and I tip the glass to pour in a very small amount.
Easy does it, just a little or his body might throw it up from the
shock. He holds it in his mouth for a moment, struggling with his
throat muscles, and then it's running over his chin, dripping onto his
clothing, my legs.
His throat is throbbing again, this time rhythmically and without
pause. It looks painful, and the force of it is horrible. Strange
shocking clicks are coming from Oz's mouth. His cotton textured tongue
hanging a bit, he retches, but there is nothing to come out. Just those
soul rending spasms. His eyes are watering, the tears running down his
cheeks to combine with the water and once again frothy drool.
It looks like he's foaming at the mouth, I think vaguely.
Wait. It looks like he is foaming at the mouth. This time my mind
latches upon the thought and jars me visibly.
It couldn't be, could it?
Oh hell, yes it could. It easily could.
"Oz, I'm taking you to the emergency room."
The only answer I receive is another spasm, another stream of tears
from his red eyes.
*********
"It is rabies, Mr. Giles. Classic symptoms. No doubt about it."
The doctor looks at me as if he expects me to start crying or create a
scene. Instead, I sink gratefully into the cushions of the couch behind
me. Rabies. It'll be ok. They can take care of that.
"Thank goodness. How long will the treatment take?"
The doctor stares at me a moment, and sits down carefully next to me.
"Sir", he says quietly...very very quietly and carefully, "once
symptoms for rabies appear, it is too late. There is nothing that can
be done. There is no cure."
The room is blurring. It is not my glasses, I know I am wearing them.
It takes me a moment to realize that it's my eyes betraying me, and
then I am hunched over.
I don't sob out loud, just let the tears run their course. I lost the
ability to cry out loud long ago. My actual sobs have all used up. But
Oz deserves something from me, and I will give him what tears I can.
And I do, I do. And it's not enough. Will never be enough. I promised
him....I promised him!
But it is all I can do, for now.
**********
"How long will it be?" Oz is doped up on painkillers, and staring at
his jacket buttons as if they're the most intriguing things he has ever
seen.
I wouldn't let him stay there. It's a disservice to Oz. And his time
is not up yet. I can still find a spell, somewhere. I know exactly what
I am looking for now, and I know it will only be a short matter of time
until Oz can drink all the water he desires.
The doctor argued with me. Said that it was amazing that Oz was still
alive at all, that the hospital could ease his pain until the end. The
disease typically kills its victims within a week of the symptoms
appearing.
I didn't tell him that werewolves are quite sturdy.
But it's true....and I am sure that Oz can hold in there another 24
hours. More, if need be. And I have enough bloody painkillers with me
to last a week, if need be. Things to numb his throat and his nervous
system. Thank God for small favors.
"How long what, Oz?"
"Time until I will be Ok?" I didn't tell him that rabies has no medical
cure. I told him it was serious, and that I had a cure for him. That
in the realm of magic, rabies is nothing. A trifle. A fly on the face
of fixable ailments.
His grin almost made my half-lie worthwhile. Worth any lie needed to
get his eyes to light up the smallest amount, to smooth out the wrinkle
between his eyebrows that seems to have taken up permanent residence.
I will find him a cure. I will, I will I will. This mantra will not
cease till I can change it too I have, I have, I have, I did it.
So you see, it wasn't really a lie. Not at all.
Because I will, so and that already means I have.
I have a strong will too, you know.
And I promised.
**********
"Can I call Buffy and the others?"
Oz snuggles further down into the blankets of my bed. "No. Please."
I nod. "You sure? They, ah, can help me with the....the preparations
for the spell." I am not a good liar. But they really could be of help
right now. Especially Willow and Tara. They, better than anyone, would
know what type of spell to help me search for.
"Can't you wait? I'm not ready to see....them." Oz says this with such
quiet urgency that I nod despite what I know is better. I know by them
he means Willow.
And besides, I promised I would help. And perhaps....just perhaps,
there is a part of me darkly flattered that of all people he would come
to me as his hope.
It affords me a bit of power in my mind, power against self-perceived
powerlessness. So help me, I want to do this for Oz. I want to be the
one to say, "I can help you."
But before I can do that, I need to find the cure. So I nod again and
leave him to much needed rest.
What do werewolves dream of?
**********
Nothing.
I have gone through at least a quarter of my books, and there's
nothing.
If I needed to turn Oz in to a woman, if I needed to remove any nasty
warts or skin ailments, or if I had a reason that required making him
speak in the lost language of Atlantis.....these I could do.
And as for ways to kill Oz, there are countless.
But to save him, there are few. And none of those can save him in the
manner needed. Save him from a rattlesnake bite, yes. That is the
closest I have come.
But I still am optimistic. I have to be, or I pound the final nail into
the coffin, so to speak.
Oz wanders into the room, having slept over 18 hours. He looks worse.
The viral clock is ticking, is patiently bringing him closer to the
tock that signals the clock has wound down to stillness.
He is very calm right now, drifting through the room on week legs.
Circling, circling. The doctor said I should expect this. Periods of
manic rage, periods of alert stillness.
Periods that herald the final stage. That stage that will leave him--by
all rights should have already--
"--It's too bright in here." Oz starts to move towards the windows, but
I beat him to them easily, drawing the blinds.
"So?"
"Yes, Oz?"
"Today?"
I hope this is the truth. Please God, let me be telling the truth.
"Yes. Tonight, after the sun has set."
"My legs aren't working right. It hurts."
"Do you want more pain killers?" I look around, trying to remember
where the bag is.
"Not yet. Just thought I would tell you what i-it is like." Coughing
now, to much to say for his damaged throat to handle. "C-c-c-ause it is
different, y-ou know? Rabies is odd. I w-wish I remembered what gave
this to me."
We had agreed that he must have been bit by another affected animal
during a full moon. When is a very good question, though. It could have
been the last full moon...or it could have been a year ago. There is a
varied length of time until any symptoms show.
"I'm going to watch TV."
I watch Oz pad from the room, bundled in layers and layers of clothing.
He had been cold.
Right, then. Back to the books.
This time, I know I will find it. I can feel it. Yes.
**********
Oz is rocking back and forth in a corner, and is beginning to get that
frantic look in his eyes again I fear heralds an outburst.
"It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts....."
A toneless primal chant, addressed to whom? I have no idea. He was
repeating it when I came in, and I suppose he will continue to repeat
it if I was to leave now.
I look to the wall clock. It has only been three hours since the last
pill. They should last at least eight hours.
Oh, god. The lycanthropy. Damnit..his metabolism, his bloody damn
werewolf metabolism! I forgot, how could I forget? The energy his small
body consumes, it must burn away the painkillers before they have a
chance to effectively work.
Oh, God. No one should be forced to look down into the face of someone
in so much pain. What type of God does this to his creatures? A test?
For me? For him?
His time?
Not if I can do anything about it.
I curl up next to him on the floor, taking his body--oozing the scent
of sickness, rancid, wrong--into my arms. Stroking the greasy hair,
pausing to kiss his forehead.
"Tonight, tonight. I will fix it tonight. I promise, I promise. You
will be alright. I promise, Oz. I promise."
And soon it is just his heartbeat, me crooning sing-song promises in
time with its fractured beating.
I am almost through my books. There are seven left.
But I promised him I would make it all better.
Damn you, damn you, damn you. God. Hear me?
**********
Oz comes into the room once more, and I have to stare at him despite
the way it must appear to him. As if I am staring at a side-show freak.
His eyes have turned yellow; his ears have elongated. His entire body
seems to going through a time-lapse photography sequence. I have been
following him around when taking a break from the books, and each time
another part of his wolf has appeared or vanished. It must be from his
nervous system shutting down.
"Are you ready, Oz?"
His eyes are so cloudy and his features so slack, I wonder if he can
understand me. The rabies is progressing faster than the doctors had
guessed at. His body has fought with all the supernatural power it
possesses, but there is still only so much it can handle.
But Oz still manages to nod, and I am once again awed by the power and
strength this boy--young man--must possess to even have pushed his body
this far. I doubt it could have been just his body alone that has kept
him standing.
He forced himself here. To me. I was the one he came too.
And that's....that's so wonderful, and painful, yet also has so many
other intricate feelings attached that I dare not analyze them.
"Let's go then, Oz."
I follow behind him to the door, looking back once at the closed books
on my desk. Ready to go back on the shelf.
I keep my promises.
**********
We drive in silence, the only sound that of passing traffic and Oz's
labored breathing. The smell of his failing organs. My own belated
"what if?" thoughts.
I drive to the city landfill. It is the only place that will work.
I half expect Oz to question why we have come to this place, of all the
spots to drive to.
But he doesn't, just fumbles with the door handle until I get out and
cross around to his side to open the door for him.
"Let's walk. A bit further, Oz. Then we will take care of your, uh,
problem."
Oz is mechanical in his movement. And that, more than anything else,
confirms the notion that the true Oz is gone. Disengaged from the here
and now. Or pulled far back into his own mind to escape the pain and
the virus-induced thoughts that are plaguing him. Either way, the
outcome is the same.
Where is Oz? Oz isn't here. He's off in a place of his own devising, I
imagine. I hope.
As we walk further into the stench and piles of refuse, I let the idea
of Oz's refuge take hold. Let it grow, branch off until I like the feel
of it in my mind. Let it feel just, and right.
I hope it's a place where he is running free, with an female werewolf
for company. Or a Willow-wolf. In the center of a warm pack, belonging
in a way he never can in this human controlled world.
"T-this is good, Oz. Stop here. This will do nicely."
A deep, shady forest, with a sun-dappled clearing in the center. An
ocean of grass is there, soft to the feet--whether they be human or
wolf. And breezes full of interesting scents and then there would be
little puppy-children and no complications.
"See the stars, Oz?"
Oz cranes his head up slowly, and a little smile crosses his lips.
"Nice."
And in this world there is never a memory of his past pain or heartache
or the stench of the human waste that's towering on either side of us.
No knowledge that some things can not be overcome, not even with magic.
In this world, anything is possible.
I fumble in my coat pocket for the gun I have brought with me.
The stars really are quite lovely, tonight.
Just as lovely as they would be in his world. Every night, with the
northern lights to lull him and his love to sleep under branches heavy
with leaves.
"Don't turn around Oz. Don't turn around."
I promised him. I promised him I would make the pain stop.
"Don't turn around."
**********
The End
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