Patient Zero — can the pandemic be stopped?

“I had a little bird, and its name was Enza,
I opened the window, and in-flew-Enza.”

A nursery rhyme from the 19th century. Children used to sing it while the Spanish flu was decimating populations across the globe in 1918.

This is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to actual events or to real persons, dead or alive is, naturally, strictly coincidental.

Prologue

Tuesday, 11:52

He knew he was about to die. There was only one way to seek forgiveness for his wrongdoings, for his sins against man and against God. He has been misled, misinformed, he could see that even now — in his feverish, near-delusional state. He had to be purified before his final moment. He was so close now. The inevitability of his situation forced him to his feet, despite the pain that filled his chest like a bag of stones, grinding one against the other in his lungs. He straightened the knot of his ihram with his right hand and supported himself against a wall with his left. His sweaty palm slid against the peeling paint.

A crowd of people, all dressed in white, streamed past the young man like a river of clothes inside the drum of a washing machine, leaving in their wake only a low hum. All he could think of was his craving for human touch. When was the last time he was touched by another human being? He had been living in isolation for years — three, maybe four? He thought of his mother’s light touch when she used to tuck him into bed. But his mother had been dead for ten years now. It all blurred into a dizzying memory, when someone pushed him from behind and knocked him off his feet. He supported himself on his arms, on all fours, gasping like some diseased animal. He was aware of his fingers trembling on the hot, dusty pavement.

“Are you all right, brother?” asked a bearded man in his early fifties, in spotless, white, two piece traditional dress. The man grabbed his arm and pulled him up onto his feet again, with fingers that felt warm and strong. Under the thin cotton garment he was drenched with sweat.

He nodded, trying to thank the man, but only a horrible cough came out, causing his entire body to shake. He struggled to breathe.

“Please,” he said to the man, in what sounded inside his own head like a hollow voice.

“Please, Allah yekhaleek, Allah keep you, just help me get there.” He pointed a trembling finger towards the white crowd. The bearded man understood, and led him, as if carrying a rag doll, into the throng. He felt heat from the many bodies all around. Skin and cloth rubbed against him, filling him with unexpected peaceful gratitude.

“I made it,” he mumbled with cracked, dry lips — he still couldn’t believe his luck. Just yesterday, he was sure all was lost; that he would rot in hell for eternity. He felt every cell in his body struggling for oxygen, every pore in his skin yearning for air. He sensed strong arms trying to stabilize him on his feet.

“It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter,” he garbled. Then everything faded.

By the time the medical team that was called by his benefactor arrived, there was nothing they could do for him. He died with a frozen half-smile, half-grimace, on his pale face.