The Creature Inside

The first sign of trouble was the outbreak of the virus in Venice. It had come in on a cruise ship a week into July and spread faster than the speed boats on the Grand Canal. By the end of the second week, the doctors at the Servizio Sanitario Nazionale had announced an estimated death rate of over 85%. By the end of the third week, we were under lockdown. Worse than ebola, tuberculosis, or smallpox was this Grim Reaper in the shape of a microscopic parasite. By week five, the virus had spread as far south as Rome. The Italians called it Signor Morte–Mister Death. 

           Nothing was working. After two weeks of spottiness, the WIFI had crapped out. Cell service and phone lines had gone down two days later. The grocery stores had stopped delivering and I was living on stores of dried beans, rice, and pasta, but as long as I had water, I could manage.

Neil Gaiman had said, “If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies.” Signor Morte had made this astonishingly clear. We all exist on our own little islands, even though our islands may sit side-by-side on the same little street.

~|~

Giorgia had not messaged me in days. She had sent me a text–just a quick Buongiorno but the cell service had collapsed before I could reply.

           Rolling onto my side, I curled into a ball. A mewling, scratching angry creature was growing inside me and with each passing day, it was worse. 

I felt a tear slip down my cheek. She had begged me to move in with her, but I had said no. I had come to Sicily to focus on writing. The creature inside me got angrier, every time I considered my choice. 

“Back off,” I said to the creature. “What else could I have done?” I had come to this tiny village, Circello, to finish my novel–time without work, and without Nonna and Nonno pushing me to marry some nice Italian boy. No, I had not come to Sicily to fall in love.

“It’s not love,” I insisted, but the creature simply sniggered.

~|~

Morning. That was the time when water was pumped into roof-top tanks from the street, but not that morning. The pump was silent. I had 500 litres in reserve on the roof. Not enough. 

~|~

           It had been a week since the water had been pumped to the rooftop tank, but the last drips had fallen from the tap and I knew that I had to decide. Should I stay? Without water, I’d be dead in three days. Do I go out? If I went out, I would come up against Signor Morte. How long would I last? One way or the other, death was standing watching me.

           And there was that thing; that one other thing that had been in my mind as I tried to decide what to do. What had happened to Giorgia? 

~|~

           With a scarf around my mouth and nose, I stood for a moment, palm flat against the door. After weeks and weeks inside living with the spectre of Signor Morte, the door felt odd against my hand–heavy and unreasonable. My chest tightened and hot pinpricks of fear spread up my neck and across my face. 

“Maybe I should stay?” The angry creature rose up and shrieked. 

“Okay, okay. I’m going,” I told the creature. 

Shouldering my rucksack, I opened the door into the first fresh air I had breathed in 56 days. I gagged. The sick, sweet, cloying smell of putrefaction was thick. I could feel it on my skin. The smell coated the inside of my nose, my mouth, and my throat. Tears ran down my cheeks, partly from the stench, but more from the knowledge of what was behind the foul smell.

It was silent. Eerie. I had to get away from the silence–to hear my own footsteps. By the time I reached Via Arcuri, I was sprinting. I skidded around the corner. 

I pressed my hand against my mouth to keep from vomiting. Even with the scarf, the smell was horrific. Clouds of flies swarmed the piazza and beneath them, hundreds–no thousands of half-eaten bird carcasses. 

I had to get out. Now. The creature inside was screaming, fighting. Running from the piazza, with no idea where I was going, I ran as much to get away from her as from the carnage behind me. Running blind; I was sobbing, gasping for breath. At the stone steps going down to the path and out through the olive orchard, I tripped and tumbled, hitting every flagstone on the way down. Amidst the dust, I lay wheezing, catching my breath. Where should I go? But I knew. It was Giorgia. I had to find her.

Bile burned my throat as I stood up. The olive trees were swaying. Everything was swaying, but it wasn’t the trees, it was me. 

“One foot after the other,” I whispered while the creature inside me sniggered.

~|~

           The August heat had returned. The sky was brilliant–blue and cloudless. The sun baked my head and my shirt clung to my back. As I walked along the country road, dust carried in on the African scirocco coloured my legs a chalky orange. In the distance, the silence was broken only by the occasional barking of a feral dog skipped over by Signor Morte. 

           It struck me that the only living animals I had seen were predators–dogs, cats, foxes, and one hawk circling above. Everything else lay dead in the short, dry, yellowing grasses. What does that mean about us? I wondered.

~|~

           I followed the backroad to Sant’Anastasia until I came to a pack of feral dogs tearing apart a sheep. Since Signor Morte, the feral dogs looked far less friendly and far more aggressive, so I cut through the fields and over the mountain. 

           On the treeless mountain, each step had to be taken with care. Rocky outcroppings, bleached bone-white by the sun, held unknown dangers. Small outcroppings hid behind clumps of vegetation waiting to trip me–larger crags hung over me, sending small rocks tumbling down. I regretted not bringing a walking stick.

           Before I was halfway up the mountain, the wind picked up and dark clouds started to skitter across the sky. The creature chuckled. The temperature had dropped from an exhausting heat to a chilling cold and the sky was a sinister black. Lightning shot forked fingers down from the clouds as I struggled against the wind to reach a cave up ahead

           In an instant, my arms tingled, and the hairs stood on end. BOOM! A brilliant white light flashed, and I was filled with excruciating pain shooting down my arms and legs and through my torso. The creature howled in rage. Light surrounded me like a bubble. I could feel myself thrown backward, in slow motion. The creature chortled, “Now you’ve gone and done it,” and I was out cold.

~|~

           Icy rain pelted down, waking me and I moved, groaning in agony, onto my hands and knees, and crawled the last 200 feet to the cave. 

           Inside was large and dry. My arms were painful and heavy with tree-like scars­–branches, leaves–running from my shoulder to my wrist. I had heard of this before. Lichtenberg figures. Marks left by lightning running through one’s body. My body. 

Exhausted, I collapsed onto the ground, rucksack under my head, when I heard a low growl from the back of the cave.

“Please,” I whispered, “This can’t be an inhabited cave.” I pulled a flashlight from my rucksack and peered into the back. The yellow eyes of a fox flashed; its teeth bared. 

Too sore and exhausted to move, I said to the fox, “You stay there, I’ll stay here. Let’s just leave each other alone.”

The fox’s growl grew into a snarl. Belly low to the ground, it began to creep toward me. I had nothing left for this, but the creature inside me did. Her rage bubbled over and pulsed through my body like the lightning and I, too, was enraged. How dare this fox threaten me! Without warning, the creature thrust me and my rage at the fox. I howled, diving so quickly, the fox didn’t have a chance to move. I clutched its head and smashed it down on the rocky floor, spreading its brains and blood all over my hands. Licking my fingers, the blood and brains tasted delicious. I tore into the flesh until all that was left were bones and fur. I crumbled to the ground and fell, dreamlessly, asleep.

~|~

           My eyes opened to sunshine, a pounding headache, and a ravenous appetite. I gulped down a bottle of water, hoping it would help.

           My eyes caught the pile of blood and bones and fur beside me. No. That couldn’t be real. But I knew it was, that I had been the one to kill and eat that fox. I stumbled out of the cave to my knees, waiting for the retching to start. It never did. As disgusting as eating raw fox was to me, the creature seemed satisfied.

Grabbing my rucksack, I started up the mountain. If nothing else, I was going to make it to Giorgia today.

~|~

The sun had just passed the midpoint in the sky when I reached Sant’Anastasia. Silence, with the same dreadful odor of putrefaction. Flames of exhaustion licked my calves and burned my feet. In spite of the stench, I had to stop. My thirst was raging. Ah, grazie Dio! Before me was Bar Roma. A metal chair lay on its side in front of the bar. Could I do it? A lifetime of conditioning said no. My exhausted legs and thirst said yes. I smashed in the window.

           The inside was oppressive, but there were no surprises, no bodies. The bar was fully stocked. Even the water flowed from the tap. I ducked down and let the water run into my open mouth. Miraculous. I drank until my stomach gurgled until the creature was submerged, at least for the moment. A padded bench called to me and I stretched out to give my feet and legs a rest. 

~|~

           “Stella!”

Sure as life, I heard someone call my name. I sat up and listened. It was Giorgia. 

           “Stella!”

           “Giorgia! Where are you?” I ran to the door, the sun blinding me. Outside on the sycamore-lined sidewalk, I couldn’t see her.

“Stella!”

Trotting along the sidewalk, I looked down each of the side streets. Ahead, a figure turned the corner. It was Giorgia, but before I could call out, a dark shadow rose up behind her. It was huge, black, and ominous. From behind her flew an enormous hawk. Giorgia looked over her shoulder, shrieked, ran and the hawk gave chase. Larger and larger it grew. Giorgia’s face stayed in shadow, but the hawk, now huge with a massive wingspan, was absolutely clear. Soft feathers lay in brown and white stripes over breast muscles so strong that every time it flapped its wings, I could see the feathers ripple with the movement of the muscles beneath. Blood orange eyes were trained on Giorgia and with a loud kee-eeeee-arr, it changed its trajectory, pointing sharply down. The creature wailed back in answer. The dark shadow had now spread over Sant’Anastasia, and huge, black storm clouds rolled in. Sprinting, I tried to make it to Giorgia before the hawk could. Head down, Giorgia dashed toward me. 

           “This way! Giorgia, over here!” I screamed. Her legs pistoned up and down. She was close enough I could hear her gasping. The hawk’s talons were now out, ready to clutch at Giorgia’s back, pick her up, and carry her away.

           “Giorgia, take my hand!” Head still down, she reached out as she ran toward me. I grasped her wrist and pulled her sideways down a narrow alley–too narrow for the hawk, now the size of a small plane. We tumbled over and over. When we rolled to a stop, I grasped at Giorgia’s shoulders and tried to roll her over onto her back, but she fought me. Above us, the hawk screamed. Kee-eeeee-arr!

           “Giorgia, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” The creature was now fighting to get free.

“Giorgia?” I whispered. But instead of Giorgia’s melodic Italian accent, I heard a harsh canine growl. 

“Giorgia, please.” Once again, I took her shoulders. This time she didn’t resist, but her face stayed hidden. Gently, I place my hand on her cheek and turned her to me.

I scrambled back, hitting the stone wall of the building at the back of the alleyway. What horror had happened to her? Her eyes were torn bloody sockets. Her beautiful soft olive skin was purple and rotting. Flesh had peeled away, and I could see broken teeth through holes in her cheeks. 

“Oh my god, Giorgia, what happened? Who did this to you?” With a low guttural predatory sound, Giorgia leapt at me. I rolled away harder than I had intended and banged my head against the wall.

~|~

           I sat up with a start. Still in Bar Roma, I was on the floor. Giorgia was nowhere to be seen, and the sun was streaming in the broken window. 

           “It was just a dream?” I whispered, staggering to my feet. From the angle of the sun, I couldn’t have been asleep for much more than an hour. 

           The creature whispered, “She’s in trouble. She could die.”

           Yes, she could die. I grabbed my rucksack and left the bar.

~|~

           It was an easier walk to Burgio than it had been to Sant’Anastasia. Giorgia’s house was on the outskirts, just across the fields from the Capuchin Monastery. I ran past the prickly-pear and the almond and fig trees, until I came to her ancient wooden door, painted bright blue against the pink-ish stone and the terracotta roof tiles. 

           The creature inside me purred. This was where I belonged. My home was in Giorgia’s arms and she had to know I’d finally realized it. After all I had been through, to realize what I should have understood all along; I did not want a life without her.

           I pushed on the door. 

           “Giorgia? Are you there?”

“Giorgia?” I called again, a little louder.

           From upstairs there was the squeaking of bedsprings and the padding of feet across the floor.

           “Stella? Oh, mio Dio! Is that really you?” It was Giorgia. My knees nearly buckled in relief.

           “Giorgia, I’m downstairs.”

           Instead of the sound of footsteps, I heard nothing.

           “Giorgia? Aren’t you coming down?”

           “Stella…I don’t look like you remember me.”

           “What do you mean? I don’t care!”

           “Really, Stella, you have to prepare yourself.”

           “Giorgia, please.”

           Giorgia came down and stepped into the light. I stumbled backward, landing on the granite floor. Her right eye was gone, and, as in my dream, her face was purple and rotting. One nostril was a loose flap of skin, and her flesh had peeled away in parts with broken teeth jutting through. She reached out a hand. The beautiful long fingers that I used to love to watch as she played guitar were twisted and two were missing. 

           “My beautiful Giorgia. What happened?” I whimpered.

           “Oh Stella, don’t you know? It’s the virus. It was on the news before the power went out. It has two stages. The first is the sickness. If it kills you, you’re dead, but if you’re infected and something else kills you, the virus somehow brings you back to life. But this,” she gestured to her face, “this is what happens. Lesions, rotting flesh, symptoms like leprosy. No one knows why. And it changes your brain chemistry. I can’t eat anything but raw flesh anymore. Everything else tastes so bitter I can’t stomach it.”

           “But Giorgia, is there no treatment? Can’t you get help?”

           “Stella, there’s no one left to help.”

           “Wait, does this mean…you died?”

           Giorgia nodded. “Two days ago, I was firing the gas kiln and there was an explosion. It threw me across the room. When I woke up, my eye was gone and my nose was, well, like this.”

           “Oh, my poor Giorgia.”

           “What about you, Stella. How did you die?”

           I frowned, confused. “What do you mean? I didn’t die.”

           “Oh Stella, my darling girl.” Giorgia took a mirror from the table. “Here.” She handed me the mirror.

           The creature snarled. “No, I don’t want to look.” I tried to hand the mirror back to Giorgia. She pushed it back. 

           “Look, Stella.”

           The creature twisted and writhed inside me. “No. No! I won’t look.”

           “Stella,” Giorgia held my face in her mutilated fingers. “Stella.”

           Slowly, I lifted the mirror and peered at my face stunned. It was hideous. The angry red Lichtenberg figures that ran down my arm, were also across my cheeks. My lips had turned black and purple and when I touched them, the skin sloughed off. I shook the rotting skin from my fingers, sickened.

           “Stella, it’s okay. We’re together now.”

           “It was the lightning. I was struck by lightning on the mountain last night. But I didn’t have the virus. How can this be happening?”

           “Did you ever have the feeling like you had something alive in your belly? I did, for weeks. I thought it was stress, but it’s the symptom that comes when none of the others do.”

           “So, my flesh will just drop off me? And then I’ll die?”

           “Mia gioia, I’m not sure we ever will.”