Plague

death.
    “Jen, you okay?” Jennifer L asked.
    Jennifer H’s eyes bulged. She stared at her two roommates.
    Her stomach convulsed. Her chest heaved. She squeezed her own throat like she was trying to choke herself. Her long, blond hair was wet, sweat-matted, plastered to her face and neck.
    The cough was shockingly loud.
    Kkkrrraaafff!
    Jennifer B felt the explosion of air. And something wet slapped her face.
    She reached her free hand and peeled a small shred of something wet from her cheek. She looked at it, unable to make sense of it. It looked like a piece of raw meat. It felt like chicken skin.
    Kkkrrraaafff!
    The power of the cough threw Jennifer back against the wall.
    “Oh, God!” she moaned. “Oh . . .”
    Kkkrrraaafff!
    And this time Jennifer B saw it. Pieces of something wet and raw had flown from Jennifer H’s mouth. She was coughing up parts of her insides.
    KKKRRRAAAAFFF!
    Jennifer H’s entire body convulsed, twisted backward into a crazy C. She crashed into the windowpane. It shattered.
    KKKRRRAAAAFFF!
    The next spasm threw Jennifer H into the wall headfirst. There was a sickening crunch.
    The other two stared at her in horror. She wasn’t moving.
    “Jen?” Jennifer B called timidly. “Jen? Jen? Are you okay?” Jennifer L asked.
    They crept closer, now holding hands, weapons still at the ready.
    Jennifer H did not answer. Her neck was twisted at a comic angle. Her eyes were open and staring. Seeing nothing. Liquid, black in the eerie light, ran from her mouth and ears.
    The two Jennifers fell back. Jennifer B sank to her knees. Her strength was gone. She let the machete fall from her hand.
    “I . . . ,” she said, but had no second word. She tried to stand but couldn’t.
    “We have to get help,” Jennifer L said. But she too had sunk to her knees.
    Jennifer L tried to stand but sat down again. Jennifer B crawled back to her room. She wanted to help Jennifer L, she did. But she couldn’t even help herself.
    Jennifer B struggled to push herself up and into her bed. Need help, she thought. Hospital. Lana.
    Some still-functioning part of her delirious mind understood that the best she could hope to accomplish for now was to reach the sanctuary of her bed.
    But finally even that was too much. She lay on the cold wood floor staring up at her bed, at the motionless ceiling fan. With the last of her strength she pulled the mess of dirty sheets and blankets down on top of herself.
    She coughed into the once-soft quilt she’d taken from her mother’s room long ago.
    The thing on Hunter’s shoulder didn’t hurt. But it did distract him. And he couldn’t be distracted when he was hunting Old Lion.
    The mountain lion never bothered Hunter. The mountain lion didn’t want to eat Hunter. Or maybe it did, but it had never tried.
    But Hunter had to kill the mountain lion because Old Lion had stolen too many of Hunter’s own kills. Old Lion crept around behind Hunter after he had taken a deer. Hunter was off chasing other prey and Old Lion had snuck around and dragged off Hunter’s deer.
    Old Lion was just doing what he had to do. It wasn’t personal. Hunter didn’t hate Old Lion. But just the same he couldn’t have the mountain lion running off with the food for the kids.
    Hunter hunted for the kids. That’s what he did. That’s who he was. He was Hunter the hunter. For the kids.
    Old Lion was out of the woods now, over the hill, over where the dry lands started and the rocks grew big. Old Lion was heading home for the night. He had eaten well. Now he was heading back to his lair. He would spend the day lying out on the sun-baked rocks and toasting his bones.
    Hunter walked carefully, weight balanced, light on his feet, quick but not rushing. Dangerous to rush about with nothing but moonlight to show the way.
    He had learned a lot about hunting. The killing power from his hands didn’t reach very far. He had to get close to make it work. That meant he had to really concentrate, which was hard ever since his brain had gotten hurt. He couldn’t concentrate enough to read or remember lots of words. And words still came out of his mouth all messed up. But he could concentrate on this: on swift and quiet walking, on weaving through the red rocks while keeping his eyes peeled for the cat’s faint star-silvered tracks in the little deposits of sand.
    And he had to look out for Old Lion changing his mind and deciding he would like him a tasty boy after all. Old Lion didn’t just steal food, he