Flu Shot
I ran for the toilet, feeling my stomach lurch and squirm. I’d been feeling like utter hell all weekend. They say getting the flu shot could make you sick but this was ridiculous! Sweating, chills, feeling sore all over, fever, diarrhea, nausea and hunger in alternating waves. That last one made no sense; my body craved food, so I’d eat, only to throw it up again an hour later. I think I was beginning to get pneumonia too since it was getting difficult to breathe and I was hacking up ungodly amounts to phlegm.
It was now nearing three in the morning on Monday. They knew I wasn’t coming in to work. I wasn’t even going to see a doctor, not the way I was feeling. I’d been like this – actually steadily getting worse – since Thursday. That’s when I got the flu shot. What the hell kind of strain of flu did they infect me with?
That was normal, right? Doctors infect you with a weak strain of flu to get your immune systems used to it, ready for the onslaught of germs that inevitably come with the winter months. I’m not the kind of person that shies away from germs. I know the merit of a healthy immune system, and it doesn’t come from nothing; you have to work it out. You need bacteria in your body – both good and bad. Good for obvious reasons; bad to give your immune system something to do. It can’t get complacent. You can’t let it become a couch potato. I didn’t, and as such rarely got sick.
So if my immune system was healthy, why was this weak flu kicking my ass?
I’ve been cooped up in my apartment since Friday, sleeping, watching movies, playing videogames. Sounds fun until you realize I felt like death warmed over. I could do everything from bed, thankfully – except cook. I decided yesterday, after throwing up for the umpteenth time, that I was going to stop eating. No matter how hungry I was, there was no point in wasting food. I wasn’t keeping anything down. So I hadn’t eating anything since Saturday morning – okay two days ago stopped eating, technically. It seemed to have worked; although I still felt horrible, I stopped vomiting. Until now, that is.
I usually don’t look at what I leave in the toilet; whatever comes out of me is gross, right? But this time I was curious. There was nothing in my stomach so what was I throwing up? It was white, frothy, chunky like oatmeal. And it was moving!
No, wait: that was just the water in the toilet rippling. I told you I wasn’t used to looking in the toilet. Also, I’d just watched the movie Slither on Netflix (great movie by the way) a couple days ago, so I had parasites on my mind. But the more I looked at the white blob, the more it did seem to be moving, not as one large, blobish thing, but like a mass of…
…Worms.
Thousands, each of them half an inch long, wriggling and writhing in the water. The blob spread out like a pancake, reaching the porcelain walls of the toilet, and the worms began slowly crawling up. It was difficult at first on the smooth surface, but as more of them ganged up they climbed further and further. I cried in disgust and flushed the toilet.
I sat down on the edge of the bathtub, breathing hard. My mind spun. These things were inside of me. In all likelihood there were probably more. It made me feel sick, but in a different way. How did this happen? Had I eaten something bad or undercooked? Had been exposed to something at work? There was talk about our water system not being up to par I think – I don’t keep up with all that stuff – so maybe that was the problem. Whatever the case, I needed it fixed. There was no way I was going to tolerate worms inside me.
After washing my mouth out, I went to my fridge and grabbed a leftover bottle of rye whisky. My friend Dan once told me that when he gets sick he drinks vodka and feels better the next day. I knew alcohol kills germs (the higher the concentration the better) but I always thought there was more to Dan’s theory than just getting drunk, like it was an old wives tale or something. Dan partied too much for his own good and alcohol was his answer to everything. It was time I decided to see if he was right.
After three shots I decided to look up more info on the internet. I know I should go see a doctor – or better yet, a hospital – but I felt like shit and didn’t want to leave the apartment. Some home remedies might do the trick.
Aside from the odd mention of drinking bleach, there were apparently lots of foods that would kill bacteria, but I didn’t have most of it and I wasn’t about to hit up a grocery store. I did have carrots and garlic though, so I grabbed those and began snacking. On the plus side, I was starving and the food really helped take the edge off; on the downside, I learned never to eat garlic raw: it’s disgusting. I stomached a couple cloves, hoping as bad as it was for me the worse it was for the worms. As they say: the healthier it is for you the worse it tastes. I might look up some recipes that were heavy on garlic later. My next move was to research the worms themselves.
I’m no expert on germs and parasites but maybe I could figure out what I had inside me. If anything, worst case scenario, I would at least know what I had and could tell the doctors when they admitted me to the hospital, and that could speed up my recovery. It was a rough lesson, learning about the ugly, disgusting creatures. There were so many! And some of them presented asymptomatically, which is another way to say I could have had these things in me for years and wouldn’t know it. And they all seemed to be transmitted through fecal matter – or shit. While I’m a pretty clean person who goes out of my way to avoid going near human excrement, what about other people? I shuddered to think how many people I’ve seen in a public washroom leave without washing their hands. How much shit have I actually eaten in my life.
I put down the carrot I was chewing on, feeling sick again. I breathed deeply, concentrating, and held back the vomit. There was no point eating any healthy food if it was all gonna be thrown up. The rye was also getting to me; I had a good buzz going. It was nice for a change.
Continuing on, I learned that most parasites lived in your intestines. That at least narrowed it down, since these worms were in my stomach. The leading suspect was schistosomes, or blood-flukes; it matched all my symptoms. They generally stay in your intestines, but start in your stomach. I wondered how many I had in my bowels if so many of were coming up the other way. And I’d been pooping regularly; how many had I flushed?
I was suddenly concerned with our city’s poor water system, hoping they could be filtered out. But I couldn’t worry about that now; a new rush of nausea hit me and I ran for the bathroom. Just like last time, I threw up thousands of worms, this time mixed with chunks of carrots. I flushed immediately. The food wasn’t working, not if I was gonna throw it up. I went out and grabbed another shot of rye, enjoying the buzz I had going – it sure beat feeling sick I tell you.
That’s when I noticed the sun was coming up. I checked my watch: nearly seven in the morning. If I’m not mistaken my friend Dan would be getting up for work any minute. Maybe he could give me a ride to the hospital. Dan only lived a block away from me. There was no way I was going to walk all the way across town to the hospital, but I could make it to his place.
I gave him a call, and he groggily answered. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dan?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Martin. You awake?”
“No. What do you want?”
“I want you to wake up. I need a ride to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Cause I’m sick, dumbass. I can’t eat anything, and I’m throwing up worms.
He sounded awake and grossed out now. “What?”
“Can you just give me a ride?”
“Man, they’re telling everyone to stay away from the hospital. Haven’t you heard?”
My blood ran cold when he said that. “Why do we have to stay away from the hospital?”
A noise blared in the background, sounding like an alarm clock. After a minute of scrambling, Dan came back on the phone. “I don’t know, some kind of infection going around. No cure or something. Had something to do with the flu shot people were getting.”
I nearly dropped my phone. “Oh God,” I whispered.
“What? You okay?”
“Dan, I got the flu shot.”
There was a pause with some heavy breathing before he said, “Oh shit. You said you were sick right?”
“Yeah. Worms man. They’re coming out of me like crazy!”
“Oh fuck! Oh fuck man! You got it?”
“What do I do? What is this shit man? You’re freaking me out. Why can’t I go to the hospital?”
“I don’t know. They said not to go. Too many people are causing chaos and riots or something.”
“Who said?”
“Like, the news. Go watch the news. Look, I gotta get ready for work.”
“Wait, Dan! Can you bring me some food? I can pay you, I just can’t leav-”
“No way! Marty, I’m sorry, but I’m not going anywhere near you. Not when there’s no cure. I’ll call you after work, okay? Check in on you. Bye.” Then he was gone.
I put my phone down, scared more than ever about…whatever was wrong with me. Did the flu shot give me worms? I did like Dan said and turned on my TV. After flipping channels for ten minutes and not finding anything I decided to just look it up online.
I stopped reading, feeling sick to my stomach. Not from the flu, but because of what I’d read. The ramifications of this…the whole country in jeopardy…no cure. Was this the end of the world as we knew it?
And…pinworms? They crawled out of your ass at night and laid eggs or something. I think I’d have noticed that. I’m a clean guy; I shower almost every day. If that’s what I had then how did I even get them?
The water. Of course. And, shit, since I’d been stuck in the apartment all weekend the only thing I had left to drink was tap water aside from maybe a shot or two of whisky.
I don’t recall the next few hours. I ate little, yet spent much time in the bathroom, ejecting more white, wriggling, disgusting things than I thought possible. I swear I even saw them in my piss. I thought about not flushing the toilet, but the damage had been done. It wasn’t just me spreading the vile bacterial pollution; it was everywhere now. Besides, I didn’t want them in my home. I didn’t want to see them. It was bad enough I couldn’t stop thinking about them. What bothered me most was: how much longer did I have to live? No one had survived longer than a week? I’d been dealing with this for four days. Was I as good as dead?
I watched TV, looked out the window – to see surprisingly little traffic on the streets; it’s like the whole world was dying – surfed the web, slept; anything to take my mind off it. Nothing worked.
My stomach growled. I’d finished off the rye at some point, but hadn’t drank or eaten anything else the rest of the day. Still more of the worms poured out of me. I don’t know if I was delirious or not from the bacteria, but I think I could feel them moving inside me. My skin seemed to itch, that deep inch that you can’t scratch from the surface. I also felt frail and weak, like an old man. It became harder and harder to get up, and I felt dizzy all the time. Maybe I was just tired, from lack of sleep and food. I also found it increasingly harder to breathe. It’s possible all these things were in my mind. I’d read the article, and now thought I had all the symptoms.
I could hope, right?
I didn’t know I had fallen asleep until there was a pounding on my door.
“Marty! Marty are you there?”
It was Dan. I rolled off the couch, wheezing and coughing up worm-filled phlegm. I crawled towards the door. “I’m here,” I said through a weak, hoarse voice.
“Marty?”
I slowly stood, steadying myself on the wall. “I’m here, Dan,” I repeated, louder this time. I reached up and began unchaining the lock.
“Don’t open the door!” Dan shouted.
I stopped. “Why?”
“Cause I don’t want to get sick, man. I just came by to see if you were okay. You weren’t answering your phone. How’re you doing?”
I coughed weakly. “Bad. Real bad.” I paused, not wanting to say what was really on my mind. “I’m gonna die, Dan.”
It was a few long seconds before he replied. I wanted him to tell me some good news, to give me hope. Instead he just said, “I’m sorry.”
I sat down against the door, overcome with grief. How could this happen? That something so small could be so lethal? How could the government release something like this without thoroughly checking it? Don’t drugs have to go through years of research and testing? People trust the medical system – I trusted the medical system. Now it was going to kill me.
“It’s just not right,” I said dismally. I realized then, as my face began to tickle, that tears were slowly crawling down my cheeks. “I was perfectly healthy a week ago. Now I could be dead tomorrow. And for what? A fucking flu shot? It was supposed to keep me healthy, not kill me!”
“I know, man. It sucks,” Dan replied, almost whispering. He obviously didn’t know what to say, and I can’t blame him. I didn’t really want to be by myself at that moment, but there was no point in him standing outside all night.
I reached up and grabbed my keys on the stand next to the coat rack, fished my door key off and slipped it under the door. “Check in on me in a few days, or when all this is over, when it’s safe. I’ll probably be dead by then.”
“Fuck,” was all Dan said, but he sounded close to tears himself. It only caused more of my own, leaving slick, itchy trails down my face.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true. I’ll leave some notes on my computer for you. What to do with my stuff, you know.”
After a minute, Dan answered, “Okay. Anything else you need?”
“Sure. Can you find a cure for this shit?”
A reserved chuckle followed. “Yeah, absolutely buddy. You got it!”
Despite myself, I laughed too. It was a nice, if fleeting moment. A long, quiet minute passed before I said, “Well get going; that cure ain’t gonna find itself. And time is of the essence.”
Dan laughed again, but it was forced. “Yeah…yeah. You, uh…you take care buddy.”
“You too. Thanks for everything, Dan.”
“Bye.”
“Bye,” I whispered to the fading footsteps. Dan and I weren’t exactly Frodo and Sam from Lord of the Rings, but he was my closest friend throughout college. And this was probably the last conversation I was ever gonna have. More tears spilled at that thought, but were quickly stymied when I thought about my parents. I should give them a call.
I curled over, trying to get to my feet, and was hit by another coughing fit. After a solid minute of coughing I hacked up a pile of phlegm on the carpet. I looked at it as I tried to catch my breath: it was filled with worms.
The fuckers were in my lungs now.
I stood and staggered into the bathroom; perhaps it was all in my head but I needed to get the taste, or at least the thought of them out of my mouth. I was so weak, I honestly felt like I was dying. Any breath could be my last. I know I’d lost muscle mass; the worms were eating me alive. What I wasn’t providing them in food they were taking out of my body. They were basically turning me into them. How much of me was left? I could see my ribcage without sucking in my gut, but I wasn’t about to step on the scale – I didn’t want to know how far I’d come, how much I’d lost.
Finding my mouthwash empty, probably left lying on the counter after the last time I threw up, I opened the sink cupboard to grab my spare bottle and saw, standing beside it, bleach. Recalling what I’d read online, that bleach is good for killing bacteria, I grabbed in instead. It was heavy, almost full. There had to be some way I could use it. I sat with my back against the wall, reading the bottle of bleach over and over, deciding what to do, my raspy breathing the only sound. I certainly wasn’t going to drink it – and that wasn’t going to get it in my lungs, not unless I was able to get it down the wrong hole. But maybe breathing in the fumes would be enough? I removed the cap and brought it to my nose and took a deep breath.
It wasn’t too bad at first. I mean, it smelled bad, and eventually started to burn, but I took that as a good sign; mouthwash with alcohol in it burns too. I continued for a few minutes until things took a turn: pain hit me, hard. I slammed the bottle down on the floor, sloshing some of its contents onto the floor, and clutched my chest like I was having a heart attack. It felt like I was being stabbed, and then the knife twisting inside me. I don’t know why, but I pictured all the worms in my lungs evacuating, burrowing holes into other parts of my body, eager to escape as quickly as possible.
Perhaps it was a fitting description, because after a few minutes of agonizing pain, it dissipated, and I was left lying on the floor, exhausted, yet breathing much better. I slowly sat up, realizing my airways were clear for the first time in days. My throat and lungs still burned, but I felt better nonetheless. I began to giggle, the euphoria hitting me like the buzz of inebriation; I had beaten them. Well not exactly, but I had fought them off. I was taking back control of my body.
I stood on wobbly feet, tired yet encouraged. Pondered my next step in the battle, I sized myself up in the mirror – and froze in horror.
The tears streaking down my face didn’t itch because of sweat or dirt build-up or whatever else might cause it; they itched because they were filled with worms. They were in my head. Worse: they were probably in my brain.
I just stood there watching them crawl around my face, not bothering to wipe them off; what was the point? I was riddled with them. For every worm I got rid of a dozen more would take its place. As fast as the elation of victory had come, it was gone; replaced with despair. I was beaten.
Plopping myself down on the side of the bathtub, I wondered how long I had left. If they were in my brain it was only a matter of time. What could possibly save me now? That was the last stage of death, I think: acceptance.
I stared at the bleach in front of me. The smell of it still wafted around the small room. Fat lot of good it did, giving me false hope. I kicked the bottle, not hard enough to knock it over but spilling some of it nonetheless. I moved my feet so as not to touch the nasty stuff, and that gave me an idea.
Grabbing the bottle and putting in on the counter, I looked at myself in the mirror again. Did I really want to go through with this? Did I have anything else to lose? If I was going to die, then I was going to take as many of them with me.
I took a big gulp of bleach. It was probably the most disgusting thing I’d ever drunk, not because of what it tasted like, but because of what it did; there was a reason there was a poison label on the cover. It was nothing compared to the whiskey. It burned like I’d swallowed a bottle of the hottest Tobasco sauce – and it was coating my throat. It felt like my throat wasn’t just on fire, but was also melting.
Retching and coughing, I put the bottle down. Hopefully this pain was similar to the last, that it meant the worms were dying. It was worth the suffering. I began to feel nauseous, but whether it was the bleach that made sick from the bleach or if the worms were abandoning ship, I didn’t know. I fought it as hard as I could, not wanting to throw up, but it was no use. Into the toilet spilled thousands of worms in a bleachy soup. I was happy to see them go, but knew there’d be more. Once I was finished with the vomiting I wearily grabbed the bottle and downed more bleach. I had to keep some of this stuff in me to kill the infestation.
Thinking the second swig was going to be easier than the first was a mistake. It was just as bad and I didn’t brace for it. Actually it may have been worse, after the damage already done from the first dose. It scalded my mouth and throat more, probably doing permanent damage. I took another gulp. And after a few minutes, another one. This continued until the bottle was over half gone…
I woke up hours later with a massive headache. The room smelled of rot and bleach. The bottle lay on its side, almost empty save for one last swig, should I need it. Next to me was a pile of nearly dry puke; blood red with worms in it. I watched them for a few minutes as I assessed myself; they weren’t moving. I considered that a victory, assuming it was the bleach that did them in.
As for myself, well, at least I wasn’t dead, but I wasn’t much better. I was sore all over, like I’d barely survived a savage beating. The puddle of vomit reminded me a little of Alphabet soup, and heaven help me I hadn’t had anything to eat in so long it made me hungry – although my throat was so raw it extinguished any desire to eat. The condition of my throat also prevented me from speaking; just trying to talk only stoked the raging fire. Even my lips stung. All due to the bleach I’m sure.
Worst of all was my stomach. I felt like I’d been disembowelled, and the instruments of my torture still lie within my guts. The blood in my puke must have come from somewhere; who knows which internal organs I had to destroy in the war against the worms? I suppose, all things considered, I’d rather die this way, on my own terms, not because of some stupid disease the government helped infect me with.
I hobbled out of the bathroom and went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, though once there I thought the better of it; if the bastards were gone I didn’t want to invite them back in. I had nothing else to drink in the house though, so I’d just have to suffer it out until I can figure out what to do. It was still night; maybe things would look different in the morning.
So I sit here at my computer for a couple reasons: first, because I promised Dan I’d leave him instructions in case I died; and second, to tell my story. Should I live to tell the tale, maybe I’ll be a hero; the man who defeated the virus. I don’t care about all that, but if everyone else can be saved I want a record of it. If I don’t live…well, then at least Dan will have the things he needs.
I keep coughing every few minutes, an agonizing stomach spasm that feels like it’s tearing my esophagus right out of my throat, like I’ve been poisoned with the world’s strongest chilli peppers. Sometimes blood comes up with it, but no worms, which I take as a good sign. If I had any pain meds I’d take them. Hopefully I can still sleep. If I survive the night I’ll post my condition in the morning.
The Chris Effect 
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